


Brother Game

by Pippa



Series: The Brother Game [1]
Category: The Big Valley
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 23:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 83,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21216686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippa/pseuds/Pippa
Summary: This is reposted from Fan Fiction. Its an AU arrival story for Heath.





	1. Chapter 1

AU: Its 1870 Heath is 20, Nick is 28, Jarrod is 33, Audra is 19. I haven't decided about poor Eugene. I'm still working on this don't know if I'm going to need him or not. Tom died 1869.

Strawberry, California April 1870

Heath didn't like to do it this way. He thought about it off and on the whole time he worked on the coffin. He couldn't see any other way that he could do it. It didn't seem fitting to him. There just wasn't any way he could lower that coffin into the ground with his mama in it. He couldn't even bury her right. Her sad miserable life was his fault. Her dying poor was his fault. Now it was his fault she couldn’t be buried in a right, Christian manner.

He borrowed an old wagon from Mr. Finch at the livery and washed the wagon all over so it was clean. His mother always strongly believed in cleanliness. 'Cleanliness is next to Godliness' she always said. He guessed the theme of most of his early life was cleanliness. His mama doing other folk's laundry, "Don't you mess with that washing, Heath Thomson, don't you touch them clothes, they’re all clean now," yelling at him in their little back yard. Those were probably the first words he remembered her ever saying to him angry.

His mama was a cleanliness demon, cleaning their house, cleaning other folk's houses, cleaning him. He remembered her scrubbing the mine dust off him like to take his skin off. He'd tell her, "just gonna be all dirt again tomorrow, Mama," but that never stopped her from taking off a layer of skin before she let him have his dinner. Standing him out behind the house scrubbing him with that water she kept heated, waiting for him to get home from working in the mine. Him hopping around the yard, her a hold of his arm, hanging on scrubbing away the whole time. Telling him, "you’re not sitting down to my table lookin' like that. You remember now, 'Cleanliness is next to Godliness'." Finally, even Mama had to give up, just couldn't get all that dust out of his skin. Like all the other miners, he'd worn his trade on his face and in the seams of his hands. 

So he scrubbed that wagon out good. Then he cleaned up Gal until she shone bright as that old cook stove on a Sunday afternoon. Aunt Hannah and Miss Rachel had cleaned Mama up. That was only fitting and he was thankful they had been there for that. Didn't know what he would have done otherwise. But Aunt Hannah and Miss Rachel had always been there when he needed them, so that was not a problem he'd needed to worry about.

Getting that coffin into that grave though. That was a problem he had thought about the whole time he was building the box for his mama. He wasn't strong enough to get it down in that hole alone. Miss Rachel and Aunt Hannah might have helped but he didn't think they could do their side alone. Mr. Finch hired Heath all those years ago to work in the livery cause his back was too bad to clean the stalls any more. He'd always treated Heath real well. Been polite to him, given him the job in the livery. But his back was real bad now and Heath didn't want to make him feel sorry about not helping, so he couldn't even ask him.

He was damned he'd ask his uncle to help. Not that the old man would help any way. He'd be damned he'd ask and hear the old man say, "No." Not that he'd say, "no," nothing so simple as that. He'd give Heath another talking to about how worthless he was and how he'd killed his mama. Killed her by being born and killed her by living. Not something Heath felt like hearing just this minute, when he wasn't sure he disagreed with the old man.

So Heath had finally decided that they would just have to make do. Make do the way they had his whole life. The four of them making do with what they had. Getting by as best they could on their own.

He carried his mama out of the house and put her in the box in the back of the wagon. No way he could carry her out of the narrow little front door in that box. Not and do it seemly without tipping it every which a way to get it out the door. Aunt Hannah had dressed her in her best church dress and combed her hair out. Mama's hair was still beautiful; when the rest of her was thin and wasted with the consumption, her hair was still golden and shinning. He ran a tress of it through his finger before laying it gently down on her shoulder.

He remembered when he was boy running and his mama chasing him, her hair flying behind her all golden in the sun. It was one of the few clear memories he had of his early youth. They must have been up in one of the high mountain meadows in the summer because he remembered it had been all wild flowers. He was running and laughing so hard and his mama caught him and tickled him until he was laughing so he could hardly breathe. He could remember her laughing and her hair all around the two of them and being so happy and loving his mama so much. Been a long while since he could remember being happy, but he had never stopped loving his mama so much.

Didn't know how old he was that day, must have been before the mine though, ‘cause there hadn't been time for the meadow after he started working. Then there had only been the Sundays with no work and Sunday was for church and reading the Bible, not for long walks to distant meadows.

Miss Rachel put Mama's wedding ring quilt in the box and up the sides to cover her with. He remembered his mama sewing on that quilt at night. Cutting up all those little pieces and sewing them into those circles. After he laid his mama in the box, he fingered the quilt, remembering bits of forgotten shirts, old and ragged made whole and beautiful in that quilt. Must have taken his mama two years to make that quilt, sewing a little on it each night when she came home from work. She'd save scraps of cloth from the shirts she made for the miners and keep them in her ragbag for that old quilt. Those bits had been bright and full of color while the bits from his shirts had been dull, all the color washed out of them by the time they were too old to wear any more. Now all the bits were old and faded, must have been ten years ago his mama finished that quilt. 

Now it was her shroud. That seemed fitting to him. He was glad she had such a fine quilt for her last bed. He carefully folded the edges of the quilt over her still body. He looked at her face for the last time and then folded the top of the quilt down over her beautiful blond hair and her blue eyes, closed forever.

He took the lid of her box and fitted it on over the base. He used the hammer he had borrowed from Mr. Finch at the livery to hammer in the nails to hold the top, careful that none missed and split the side of the box. He didn't want to bury his mama in a splintered coffin. He'd never had enough money to buy her the things he'd wanted, but he'd always tried to make what he did give her as perfect as he could. This box was the last thing he could give her and it was as perfect as he could do.

He sold his gun rig in Pinecrest and bought the wood for the coffin. He got oak so it would last. Difficult to work with because it was so hard, but it would last a good long time. He bought a plane there in the hardware store to make the boards smooth so there were no splinters or rough spots. He got a little linseed oil from Mr. Finch. Knew he always kept a little for the handles on the rakes and forks. Now he used the oil on the outside of the box to give it a nice shine. 

It was the nicest box he could make his mama. When he was a boy, he used to tell his mama he was going to take her away from Strawberry someday and build her a beautiful house. They would talk about their house in the valley. It was going to have a bedroom for each of them. It was going to have a big fireplace to keep them warm in the winter and front porch for sitting on in the summertime. But the only home he had ever built his mama was going to be this oak box.

He drove in the last nail using an extra nail to set the heads without denting the wood of the top. Then he took out the linseed rag from his pocket and carefully wiped where he had driven in each of the nails. Finally, satisfied that everything was as fine as he could make it, he jumped down to the ground from the wagon bed. He helped his Aunt Hannah and Miss Rachel up on to the wagon seat and climbed up beside them. Picking up the reins, he gave Gal a soft click and she walked away pulling the unaccustomed wagon.

There was never any question where he was burying her. There was a grove of redwoods just past the end of town, where they had both loved to walk on nice Sunday afternoons. Sometimes in the summertime they would pack a lunch, a couple of hard cooked eggs, or maybe some bread and jam, and come out there to eat, sharing a jar of water. They would pretend they were Robin Hood and Maid Marian in Sherwood Forest or King Arthur and Guinevere in Camelot. Heath would run about, fighting off bandits and evil knights while his mama would cry out in distress, her arm thrown dramatically across her forehead. Finally, the two would laugh and sit in the shade and eat their lunch. Both too tired from the long week of work for too much play but enjoying their time together, so rare during the week and relished on their day of rest.

Heath dug the hole in the early morning before the sun came up, neatly piling the dirt all on one side. It was too early in the season for any flowers but he gathered a big armful of the fragrant deep woods ferns and put them in a bucket near the head of the grave. He had spread some straw in the bottom of the hole to make a good soft place for the coffin to land in case he couldn't let it down as softly as he wanted. He'd put two neat pieces of oak, left from the coffin, in the bottom of the hole so he could get his rope out afterwards. 

He stopped Gal with the wagon just passed the hole and climbed down. He gave a quick look to make sure he had the wagon in the right spot before he helped Hannah and Rachel down. Once they were safely on the ground, he climbed into the back of the wagon and carefully pulled the coffin to the edge of the wagon-bed. Again on the ground, he dragged the coffin until the foot of it rested on the earth, got a good hold of the head of the box and then nodded to Rachel who led Gal forward pulling the wagon out from under its load. Once the box was clear, he lowered it carefully. He looked into the deep hole now to make sure all was ready.

Going back to the wagon, he got the rope he had coiled in the back and turned Gal and backed the wagon to the other side of the grave. He passed the middle of the rope under the coffin giving himself about ten feet of rope on either side. Once he was satisfied, he went back over to the wagon and tied the two ends of the rope to the under support on the wagon bed.

"Just walk her away slow, Miss Rachel," he said, taking a good grip on the rope near the coffin. He was only going to get one chance at this. It was the last thing he could do for his mama and he surely didn't want to make a mistake.

Miss Rachel took a grip on the reins just beneath Gal's chin and gave her a soft cluck. As the little mare stepped forward, Heath lifted his side of the coffin by the rope, so that the wagon dragged the box toward the grave. Once he had the box poised over the opening, he called to Miss Rachel, "Stop her there and back her a bit."

The mare willingly stepped back and with her help, Heath slowly lowered the box into the hole. The oak was not as dry as it might have been. It was the best he could get in Pinecrest, but it had made a heavy box. His mama couldn't have weighed a hundred pounds but he guessed that box was at least that much and then a bit more. He was glad Gal was there to help; the box was an awkward load for one man to manage. 

The box came to the bottom of the hole so gently he didn't hear it hit the two oak supports, he just knew he couldn't feel the weight of it any more. "Stop her there, Miss Rachel," he called out softly, and laid his length of rope on the ground. He walked around the grave and untied the rope from the wagon and dropped the ends into the hole. Then he led Gal away from the grave. After pulling the rope up and coiling it neatly on the ground, he removed the ferns from their bucket of water and dropped them down on top of the coffin. He wished again he had some flowers but Strawberry was not a place of flowers, never had been in his life, except maybe that one mountain meadow.

Miss Rachel read from her Bible and they all said the Lord's Prayer. Aunt Hannah sang Mama's favorite hymn with Heath and Miss Rachel joining in on the chorus. Then it was done.

"You come back to the house when you finish, Heath," Miss Rachel said, loosing her hold on her Bible with one hand to give Heath's waist a gentle squeeze. "We got dinner there."

"Yes, ma'am," Heath said, returning his Aunt Rachel's hug. "I won't be too long here, just got to set the headboard."

Rachel nodded her head sadly and then, taking Hannah by the arm, the two walked away from the grave back toward the shabby little house where no one lived.

Heath took off his good shirt and folded it carefully in the back of the wagon and put on his faded blue shirt. He only had the one good shirt and he wanted to keep it nice for the dinner Miss Rachel and Aunt Hannah had been cooking all morning. The old blue shirt would do for what needed doing now.

The first dozen shovelfuls were the worst. Each one fell on that box with a hollow booming noise that seemed to fill his head. After the first couple, he had to stop and just stand there for a bit before he could go on. Didn't seem possible that he was putting his mama in a hole in the ground and filling it in with dirt. Didn't seem possible he had nailed her into a box. He wanted to crawl back down in that hole and open the box and look at her one more time. Make sure, he guessed, that she was really dead.

Took him a few minutes to get through that foolishness before he could get back to his shoveling. Once each shovel full of dirt stopped sounding like doom to him, the work went faster. Didn't take but maybe ten minutes before there was no sign his mama had ever lived, besides a mound of earth and a bastard son.

He stood looking at that mound of dirt, trying to decide which was more worthless, the mound of dirt or the bastard. Finally, sighing, he walked back to the wagon and picked up the headboard he had carved from the widest of the oak boards.

It wasn't like one of those fancy stone grave markers he'd seen in San Francisco. He wished he had money for a marker that would last for all time, so strangers passing in a hundred years would know that his Mama was lying in these woods. But he figured the redwoods would need to be that marker. These redwoods had out lasted the mine and would out last the town. Could be they would outlast some piece of marble too.

He set the marker in the three-foot trench he had left and carefully filled in around it. Then using the heel of his boot he tamped the earth in good and tight all around the base. The dirt on the grave would settle as time took it. He wanted to make sure the marker stood straight so he took time with the settling. Once he was done, he took Mr. Finch's linseed rag and carefully oiled the handle of the shovel and cleaned the blade before returning the tool to the back of the wagon. He'd take the wagon and shovel back to Mr. Finch in the evening after dinner.

He took the little dogwood tree he had dug up and planted it near the head of the grave, filling the hole with his hands, setting the tree straight. He didn't know if there was enough sun in that patch of redwoods for the little dogwood to grow, but his mama had sure loved the dogwood blooms in the spring so maybe she would help it along a bit.

Finished, he stood at the foot of the grave and just looked at the mound of dirt and the marker. Leah Thomson 1828-1870 Beloved Mother. "Good-bye, Mama. I love you," he said simply and then, turning he walked back toward the wagon.

*************

The next morning he had Gal saddled and he was riding out of Strawberry before the sun was up. He'd said his good-byes to Miss Rachel and Aunt Hannah the night before. He didn't want to spend one more moment in that town then he had to. He didn't wholly hate the town, there were too many good memories of his life there to hate it all. But he guessed, on the considering of it, he surely hated it more than not. 

Some days he could look around and see the happy places. There was the little garden where he and his mama and Aunt Hannah had grown their vegetables; those few vegetables that could grow and thrive in the cool mountain summers, mostly squash and potatoes but very fine to eat in the cold of winter. There was a little, wide, deep spot in the stream up the mountain from town where he could swim or wash after the mine. There was the livery where Mr. Finch had let him ride the horses after his evening work. There was Mama's little house so full of love that it always seemed magical to him. So safe and warm even when they had both needed to sleep right next to that old cook stove to keep from freezing in the winter cold. 

Today all he could see were the reasons he had left this place when he was twelve and had only ever come back for short visits. Everywhere he looked seemed to be a place he had had a fight with somebody; somebody calling his mama some stupid name because of him; somebody beating on him for no reason he ever understood. As he rode through the center of the silent town, all he saw was places where they'd been insulted on the rare occasions he and Mama were in town at the same time. 

Once he found out what a bastard was, and what his being a bastard meant to his mama, he had tried not to go to town with her. He figured if he weren't there, she wouldn't look any different from any other lady in town. She would be a beautiful lady, not the mother of a bastard. He sure hoped it had worked like that, but he just didn't know. 

He rarely went any further into town then the livery and the general store. He could get to the hotel by the back way and the livery was on the outside edge of town and so he didn't need to go into town to get to work. 

The only time he had to parade past all those sneering folks was to go to the general store. That was a trip he took as rarely as he could. Wasn't much of a problem; all they could buy at the store was a bit sugar and flour, maybe some bacon or beans and shells for his little rifle. Mostly they ate what they grew and what he shot. Saved going to town, so he didn't mind squirrel stew or rabbit. 

Going to that general store and standing there until all the real folks were taken care of before Mr. Cronin would even consent to notice him waiting there. The ladies moving their skirts carefully aside but never looking at him, as if being a bastard was catching, as if a skirt brushing against a bastard would some how contaminate a person. Then when the last customer was waited on and Mr. Cronin had dusted his counter top and maybe rearranged a few cans, then maybe, if no one else came in, Mr. Cronin would say, "What do you want, boy? What are you doing in here?" 

The only reason he went there at all was that he feared that old man might treat his mama the same way; that those ladies might twitch their skirts away from his mama; that the men might not tip their hats to her, or hold the door for her. So he went to that store and stood there silently, invisibly waiting to exchange his few coins for those things he needed to sacrifice his pride to buy.

Three buildings past the general store was the hotel. Strawberry Hotel. He kept his head facing down the gradually brightening road and didn't even glance at the hotel out of the corner of his eye. That hotel was the first place he had ever been really scared. He'd been scared a lot since that first day in the hotel, but that was the first place he felt that fear that made his knees weak and his hands shake. He had never been in that building since without feeling some part of that terror. 

That first time had been the day his Uncle Matt beat him senseless, the first time he thought he was going to die, the first time he had felt the fear of his own mortality. Beat him until he passed out, until he thought he had died. He'd had plenty of chances to know his mortality since then, but he supposed you never forgot the first time.

He supposed he should go in and thank the old devil. There had been a lot of soldiers he served with who, when they first heard the shells crashing around them or first felt the bullets moving the air past their faces, had frozen in fright. Not him though. He could thank Uncle Matt for that. 

He knew what it was to have someone try and kill you. He knew what it was to live your life at the whim of another man's violence. He was used to the sounds of violence. Used to moving through enemy territory knowing at any moment violence could reach and grab you away. So while men twice his age stood transfixed by the fear of their own mortality, he just loaded and fired, loaded and fired. He and fear were old friends.

Even so, he didn't need to look at that place. He didn't need any more reminders of that place, of the only family he had, except… they weren't the only family he had any more. He had a family. Well not a real family. Not, he thought angrily, not a "legitimate" family. But he had more blood kin than Matt Simmons. 

Once he was clear of the last outlying buildings, he heeled Gal into a slow ground-covering jog and considered this new family; the family that his father had cared for; the family that had mattered to the man who sired him; Tom Barkley's real family. There had been a time when he would have given everything he had, which admittedly was precious little, to know his father's name. 

Now, he knew it. He was surprised to find that knowing the man's name had opened up that pocket of rage he thought he had closed away years ago. He hadn't realized how angry he still was at that stranger, whose thoughtless act had given him life, until he had seen the old newspaper clipping in the back of Mama's Bible. 

That got him to thinking about his mama. He had worked his whole life to put a roof over his and his mama's heads and food on their table. True, the past few years he hadn't been here to share that roof, but his life had still been centered around earning money for him and his mama to live on. Now suddenly things were different. He sat so still with this realization that his horse stopped too and the two remained stationary while he worked his head around this difference. Was it a difference? He still needed to eat and live. He would still send money to Miss Rachel and Aunt Hannah. So had anything really changed about the shape of his life? 

Well, yeah, he knew it was different. His love for his mother had been the center of his life, the focus around what he did and how he saw the world. Caring for her, even when he was thousands of miles away, was what he did. Knowing that no matter where he was, she was saying a prayer for him had mattered, had mattered a lot. Now that was done. Now there was no one to care if he lived or died except two elderly ladies in an old mining town, who had lives of their own to live. Did that make his life something different? He knew it must, but he couldn't see his way clear to what it meant.

Did not having a mother and suddenly having a father all in one day make a difference to his life? Should he feel differently somehow, finally knowing his father's name?

He had been sure all those times he had begged his mother to tell him about his father, and later when he had ranted and raged for his name that it would matter. That knowing this one missing thing about himself would change his life. Now, knowing it, he was damned if he could see how. He wasn't this man's child. He had never even met the man. He was Leah Thomson's child. The woman, who had raised him, loved him, done without to give to him. What was Tom Barkley to him? 

After another half hour of riding and thinking down the steep mountain trail, he was no closer to understanding what had just happened to his life. He was working on his mother and Tom Barkley and what them being together had meant when he found himself plucked out of his saddle and falling to the earth. All he could see was the ground coming at him; he was so astonished he couldn't even put up his arm to break his fall. It was the sound of the second rifle shot as he hit the ground that set him rolling off the trail into the brush. 

*******************************

It had been a long time since there was much traffic up to Strawberry. The trail was heavily grown over with encroaching brush on both sides and brush growing up in the middle of the trail between the ruts left by the occasional wagon. This brush probably saved his life as whoever was trying to kill him couldn't get a clear shot, as he rolled out of sight and into the bushes.

Now he had cover but no weapon. His side was numb, but he knew it wasn't going to stay that way. If he was going to find a place to make his stand, it had to be quickly before the pain that was on its way put him down. He raised his head up and frantically searched for a place with better cover. This part of the trail was fairly flat as it followed the river down toward the valley. He was on the river side of the trail and he decided his best chance was to keep on rolling until he got to the water. The stream was full of big rocks and washed up deadfalls; there would be some cover down there. 

But he needed his rifle too. He cursed the poverty that had forced him to sell his side arm to buy the oak and plane for the coffin. He'd been sending his wages home for his mother to buy medicine and had no extra. When he got word she was doing so poorly, he had taken the railroad to Stockton. Passage for him and Gal had eaten the last of his money. He bet Tom Barkley's real sons all had side arms when they got ambushed. 

He hated to put Gal in the way of whoever was trying to kill him. But he figured if the man was killing him for what he had, that would be Gal, and it would be a pretty stupid dry-gulcher to kill the horse he was killing the man to get.

He knew he had been shot in the back from the way he fell, forward out of the saddle. He reckoned that put the shooter behind and above him. Probably up in the rocks 100 yards back up the trail. He figured 100 yards because most folks couldn't hit the broadside of a barn if it was further away than that. If he called Gal, it could give away his position. But the shooter would be there soon in any case. He wasn't getting up without help and the only help he had was Gal. The man probably figured he had killed him of course, the stupid way he had fallen off his horse.

He whistled softly and when Gal walked over obediently he grabbed the stirrup and clucked her on. He didn't particularly care where she went; he just wanted her to move him away a bit. Give the shooter more ground to cover searching for him. Give him more time to defend himself.

After a minute with Gal walking along the side of the trail, he called to her to stop. His stomach was really speaking to him now. He could see the blood all over the front of his shirt and knew the bullet had gone clean through. Using what he feared was the last of his strength since he could feel himself getting dizzy from the shock of the bullet, he used his arms as much as his legs to heave himself up. He grabbed the rifle in the scabbard and after a couple of tries, managed to pull it out. Smacking Gal on the rump as the rifle came free, he allowed himself to keep moving forward and down. As he fell forward, he rolled to his back and brought the rifle up. Whoever had shot at him must be just about at his feet by this time. He hadn’t even hit the ground when the sight of his rifle came to bear on a man not 20 feet away from him, the man's rifle already raised and aimed. 

Heath fired twice. Moving and wounded as he was, he didn't want to take any chances. He heard the other man's rifle fire at the same time, but his fall saved him and he felt the passage of the bullet above his head as he hit the ground.

He lay still, too winded and dizzy to move. He listened as if his life depended upon it and heard nothing. Twenty feet away, surely if the man was moving, he would hear something? 

He loosened his grip on the old rifle and moved his hand over to his stomach. Somewhere in all that pain was a hole with his life dribbling out of it. He needed to get that stopped. He figured if his life was gushing out he was done for anyway, but a dribble he might be able to handle.

Unfortunately, the hole wasn't hard to find. What he suspected was probably a pretty small hole going in was a bigger one coming out. He moaned softly as he bent his knee enough to reach in his boot for his knife. The hole in his back if he was lucky, would stop bleeding on its own. Not much he could do about it at any rate. No way he could reach it. This big front hole though, was going to need some sort of plug. He gently felt around the hole again, trying to figure how big it was. No way he was going to want to do this twice. He guessed a piece of cloth about six inches square should do it if he gave it a good poke in. He carefully cut away a section of the tail of his shirt, trying to cut the right size piece so he didn't totally ruin the shirt. If he didn't die, he was going to need this shirt. Once he had the cloth cut, he laid in on his leg in easy reach and put his head back to rest for a minute.

The sky was absolutely clear and a light, rich blue. The trees above him were casting moving shadows as a light breeze shook their limbs. It was all conifers up this high, and their shade was deep once you got into them, but here along the trail it was just an occasional limb reaching out to block the bright sky. He closed his eyes for a moment. Sure did hurt. He wondered if he just took a nap would the bleeding stop on its own? Maybe it had stopped already? Suddenly remembering the shooter, he listened carefully again, still no noise from that direction. He thought he had killed him with two shots to the chest. But of course the shooter had thought he'd killed his man too. Only difference was he knew he always hit where he aimed.

Sighing, he started unbuttoning his shirt. Wishing never made anything happening. Doing made things happen and he needed to be doing. 

Took a long time to undo all those little buttons one at a time, but finally he had his shirt open. He tried to raise his head and to see what he was doing, but when he tightened his stomach muscles and started to sit up, he got so dizzy he knew he would pass out. Not a good idea. He couldn't pass out until he got that bleeding stopped or he wouldn't be waking up. He reached down, picked up the piece of cloth he had and folded it over twice. He was going to need to get it right in there. He doubted he'd have much time for pressing on that hole before he passed out. If he wanted to come to, he had to make sure he got that cloth stuck right in there.

He took a couple of shallow breaths and pushed them out his mouth. This was going to really hurt. Then, as gently as he could, barely touching his stomach, he dragged the folded cloth over until it covered the hole. He took as deep a breath as the pain would allow and pushed it out of his mouth hard as he used the first two fingers of his right hand to push that piece of cloth down into the hole as hard as he could.

************************

When he opened his eyes, the sky was a dark blue. The trees on the western side of the trail had cast their shadows all the way across to the mountains on the other side of the little valley. It was late. He must have been lying there six or seven hours. He was so dry that he had to try twice before he could make a little whistle to call Gal. He lay there a long time before she came. He had been afraid it wasn't loud enough for her to hear him. Finally, he heard her walking over. She didn't exactly come running when he called, but she always came. Not bad for a horse. 

Heath knew he was going to need to find a warm place to lie up until he was healed enough to ride. He was afraid to move. Afraid the bleeding would start again. Afraid that if he tried to stand, he might fall and again the bleeding would start. It was hard for him to think, he hurt so much, and he was so cold, but he had to think or he would die. The decisions he made now, when he could barely keep his eyes open, would determine if he was alive in the morning. He had to have shelter for the night. It was spring, but spring up this high in the Sierras could be awful cold, especially at night and he didn't know if he could take much more cold. If he started shivering, he could start bleeding again.

He knew there was no way he could get up on Gal. He didn't know if he could get up at all and hesitated to try. If he moved at all, he feared the big hole in his stomach might start leaking blood or worse. He hadn't been able to see the wound and he feared the awful stomach wounds he had seen in the war, men with their intestines laying in their laps, screaming in agony for someone to shoot them. He figured if he had that kind of wound, he would be dead. But what if his insides were just there, waiting for him to move and then they would all come out the awful hole? 

He tried talking to himself. What was the worst that could happen if he moved? His guts came out and he died. If he stayed here, he froze and he died. Which was better? He decided if he did nothing, he was dead for sure. If the wound was the kind of awful gut splitter he had seen in the war, he was a dead man already and didn't know it. He had to get up and move. He had to just take his chance and die now if he was going to die. Not lie on the ground and wait for the cold to take him.

Putting his right hand over the cloth he had stuck in the hole, he tried to roll over on his right side. The hole seemed to be more on the left than the right, so it sounded like a good idea to roll to his right side. Only trouble was, once he got himself on that side he needed his left arm to try and push himself upright. He carefully reached over with this left arm almost screaming as the movement disturbed the wound. Once he had his left hand on the ground, he found he didn't have the strength left to push himself upright. He wrapped his left hand around his rifle where he had let it fall next to him. Good rifle. Good horse. You knew who your friends were when you were down. A brother would have been nice, but a rifle and a horse would have to do. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Riding down the trail like he was the only cowboy in California. Like no one ever got bushwhacked in the mountains. He let the anger build at himself, at the shooter for being a spineless back shooter; at his father for loving his Barkley children and hating his Strawberry bastard; at his mother for dying and finally, at himself for his weakness. When he had a good head of hatred and anger built up, he pushed hard with his left arm and managed to get a knee under himself. Using the rifle as a lever, he managed to get both knees under him. From there it was a hold of Gal's stirrup again and by some miracle of rage and necessity, he was standing and leaning against the little black mare, his rifle still gripped in his left hand.

He stood with his head buried against her shoulder for a long moment, just trying to keep from falling over. So dizzy. He held tight to his wad of cloth in the wound while he vomited a little of the water he had drunk in the morning. Wasn't much in his stomach, was probably why he hadn't been ill before. That reminded him of his canteen. 

He leaned his rifle against his leg. No way he could bend down and pick it up if he dropped it. He very carefully reached up with his trusty left hand and lifted the strap from off the horn of his saddle. Holding the canteen against his chest in the crook of his right arm, he worked the cork out and took a small swallow, rinsing his mouth and spitting it to the side before swallowing the next sip. It tasted like heaven. He thought it tasted so good it was probably worth the trouble of standing up.

Returning the cork to the canteen, he hung it around his neck and looked about as far as he could see without moving. He was maybe 30 feet above the river. Might as well have been a thousand; there was no way he could get down the steep bank to the river. Carefully rolling his body against Gal, he looked off behind the man who had shot him. Nothing that way but woods. 

Reaching forward very slowly, he caught hold of one of the two trailing reins. Good old horse, much to wise to step on the reins and jerk the bit in her mouth. Good old Gal, he gently rubbed her shoulder with his knuckles.

He knew this section of the Stanislaus. There had been a lot of panning all through here in the hey day of Strawberry, miners thinking to strike it rich on the gold flowing down the river. Many of them had built little shelters to sleep under at night. If he could just get back on Gal, he could find a building that would do him for a few days. Going to need about a week for this to heal up good enough for him to ride, if the fever didn't kill him first. Still, if he'd gotten this far, maybe he wasn't dying right now. 

He was glad Gal was a little horse but even so, there was no way he was climbing up on her back the way he felt. He pushed against her a little with his shoulder, so she sidestepped and he could see further down the trail. Maybe if he had something to stand on, he could get up on her. Like a set of stairs he thought, a nice set of porch stairs would surely be fine.

He didn't see any porch stairs, but there was a washed up pile of deadfall pine about twenty feet up the trail. Not brilliant, but it was all he saw. The shooter had picked a place with minimum cover; there just wasn't anything around.

Thinking about the shooter again, he glanced back over his shoulder. He thought he could see the man lying in some brush further up the trail, but he wasn't sure. Didn't know in his current condition if he even cared. 

He returned his attention to the pine logs. They would have to do to get him on Gal. Any cowboy who could stand up should be able to mount up. What kind of cowboy couldn't get on a little horse like Gal?

He took a step forward, kept his shoulder hard against the horse as he gave her a small click with his tongue and hung on to the rein to keep her from walking too fast. He sure hoped she didn't decide to make any sudden moves. Took them a long time to get to those pine logs, but they got there. He celebrated by having another little swallow of water. Then he hooked the canteen back over the saddle horn. Once he was sure it was secure, he started working on getting his rifle back in the scabbard. That took a couple of tries. The open end of the scabbard seemed a long way up in the air, but he got her done. 

He spent a few minutes fussing with Gal and got her just where he wanted her. He needed to catch the off rein, which was another ordeal, but he was rolling along now and got that done too. 

He didn't figure he was going to fall off this log and get back up again. He had one chance to make this happen or he'd be trying to start a fire with that pine tree, and it would be a long, cold camp this close to the river with no shelter but a wet pile of old half rotten logs. That was, if he didn't kill himself falling off the log.

He carefully knotted the reins so there was no danger he'd need to try and pick those up again. He got his foot up on the log okay, but didn't seem to be able to get any further. Couldn't seem to get enough push to get his weight up on that leg. He stood for a moment trying to catch his breath without actually breathing and rested his head on the saddle. Mama used to say, "Needs must do," when he would come home from the mine and find her exhausted, chopping fire wood. "Needs must do," when she would mend his too short britches one more time. "Needs must do," when they would have boiled potatoes for supper because he had failed to shoot even a squirrel for dinner.

Clamping his teeth tight, he grunted silently to himself, "Needs must do," and swung his weight up on to the log. Not pausing to catch his breath, he continued the swing with his leg over the back of the saddle and he was astride. Mama had been right again. If it needs doing, ain't anyone going to do it for you, just got to get her done.

He sat for a minute or two, his chin almost touching his chest and his back hunched forward as he waited for the dizziness to pass. He sure didn't want to take a chance on falling off, now that he had gotten himself up here. Finally, the pain back to a bearable level, he looked up from his new vantage point to consider his best plan. 

He'd planned to find a hut of some sort and bed down for a week. Now though, that he thought on it from Gal's back, which was always a good vantage point, he decided he would just press on to Pinecrest. It was only another couple of hour's ride from here and he knew they had a doctor there. His mama had gotten her medicine in Pinecrest. Every time Mr. Finch went for supplies and mail, he brought medicine from Pinecrest. 

He figured he had six dollars left from the sale of his handgun. That should keep Gal for a week and leave enough to pay the doctor. He could sleep in the livery with Gal while he got healed up enough to ride again. 

Pinecrest was down in the valley and would be a lot warmer then up here in the mountains. Right now, being warmer seemed more important to him then lying down. Since he was in the saddle, he might as well ride, "needs must do." He smiled a little as he turned Gal back toward where he thought the shooter was lying, curious if he knew the person causing him all this trouble.

He wasn't surprised to see his Uncle Matt lying there dead. He'd never seen Uncle Matt, but he had caused him some sort of pain. Well, he thought, no more pain from that old man. He sat on Gal and looked on him for a moment. He knew he didn't have the wherewithal to get down and bury him. Guessed if the old man had wanted burying, he should have stayed home and died in bed. 

Turning Gal, he headed back down the trail toward Pinecrest. He was a cowboy; any cowboy worth his salt could sit a horse for a few hours on a nice warm evening. He hunched forward a bit more to try and ease the pain in his gut. He wanted to close his eyes and let Gal keep to the track, but he was afraid he would pass out and fall out of the saddle. He wondered if the hole in his belly was leaking again, but his hand was stuck there against the wound by the dried blood, so he'd best leave it all be. He could stick anything out for a couple of hours.

The trail down from Strawberry to the Sonora Road was steep and slow going. It was nearly dark by the time he reached the road and turned back east toward Pinecrest. This was a good road, used by the Stockton Stage as far as Pinecrest, the last stop on their eastbound route. Gal was able to stretch out into her easy, long walk and they were in the town by full dark. 

**************************  
Pinecrest was a mining town that had survived the fever of the big strikes to settle into a quiet prosperity. Several operating mines in the nearby mountains, aided by enough good farming land in local meadows, had created a population of farmers, miners and a few ranchers. The town had a church, a school, a sheriff and even a doctor. 

Heath knew his horse was tired. It hadn't been an awfully long ride, but he’d spent much of the ride only semi-conscious with Gal constantly having to move to keep under him and make sure he didn't fall out of the saddle. She was a good mare. Always looking out for him he thought tiredly as he tried to decide what to do. He was sure he couldn't walk from the livery to doctor's. He would have to try and find someone to take Gal to the livery. He thought if he hadn't been alone, if he'd been riding in with his brother then there would have been someone to look out for Gal. "Needs must do though."

He rode slowly down the main and only street in Pinecrest. The doctor lived in a small clapboard house on the east side of town as he recalled. There were several houses out that way. He hoped he would recognize the right one.

As it was, he had no trouble. The doctor had a sign out in front of his picket fence and the noise of the sign blowing in the wind caught his attention when he might have ridden past. He sat Gal in front of that blowing sign for a couple of minutes and planned out his next move. 

The hand he'd kept tucked against the hole in his side was stuck tight there by dried blood. He feared to move the hand lest he start the bleeding again. He didn't think he could dismount, about all he figured he could do was fall off his horse. That would surely start the bleeding and he would never get back up again. He was sure enough in a mess here. He tried calling out, but if he could barely hear his own voice, they surely wouldn't hear him in the house.

He decided to ride around to the back of the house. Most picket fences were for show. It wouldn't go around to the back and he could ride up close to the backdoor. He turned Gal's head and took her around back. A lamp was lit in what must have been the kitchen. He thought it wasn't too late. It still got dark early this time of the spring. Folks were still maybe eating dinner.

He brought Gal as close to the porch as he could, hoping his body would make more noise hitting the porch then it would hitting the ground. People were most likely to investigate a noise if it was right at their door. Once he had Gal as close as he could get her, which her being such a good horse was pretty close, he wrapped both arms around his middle, kicked his feet free of the stirrups and tried to roll as much as he could as he came out the saddle.

He thought he had been pretty successful when he landed on the porch on his right side and rolled onto his back. Hurt like perdition, but he lived through it. Not a minute after he landed, the back door opened and a man he could only see silhouetted against the kitchen lamp stood in the opening.

"Howdy." Heath tried for the greeting but wasn't sure any noise actually came out.

"Mary, get a light out here."

The man was kneeling now near his head. "What's wrong there, cowboy?"

"My horse needs tending." He wasn't sure the man heard that either. He wasn't sure he was really there. Maybe he was still on the trail? It was awful dark and he was real cold. Maybe he was still lying on the ground, shot dead? It just didn't seem to matter. He closed his eyes. It wasn't all that important, except he wished someone would look out for Gal.

He was lost in time and space. He didn't know where he was or when he was. "Hey there, cowboy. Now don't move around too much and tear out all my good work." The hands holding him down on the bed were firm and uncompromising. "You lay back down. You aren't going anywhere for a while. Here, take a little drink of water."

'Water' sounded like the most wonderful word he'd ever heard. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was. His stomach hurt so much he thought that was all that mattered but now water seemed all fired important.

After a couple of sips of the water though, he was back to thinking his stomach was way more important than any water. It felt like someone had lit a fire in his belly that was burning right through him. A hot fire, like a blacksmith would use. Stoked and built of red coals for melting iron or flesh. He tried to wrap himself around his stomach, to grab a hold of the fire with his hands.

"Stay still, boy, you aren't going any where, now. Here, open your mouth, this will help the pain." 

He could hear someone talking at him but he couldn't understand the words, just the fire. He knew he was panting now with the pain, he could hear his own breath. He felt the spoon in his mouth, banging on his teeth. When the foul, bitter liquid hit his tongue, he swallowed convulsively he couldn't seem to get that bitter medicine all the way down his throat. He feared he might be sick, he thought if he vomited surely the pain would kill him. 

Someone put a wet rag on the back of his neck. The hands continued to fight with him, holding him, restraining him as he tried to move away from the pain. When he felt himself falling, he was glad, thinking he must be finally dying. 

First he was aware of the pain. He could hear someone groaning. Then he knew it was him, making that noise. He stopped the noise. He kept his eyes closed against the light and the pain and the confusion. Where was he? Why did he hurt so much? 

"Boy, you got a name?" The voice was familiar. The question was said kindly. He knew he was the boy being addressed. He was always the Boy when someone asked a question. “Boy, you got a name?” That was a question he'd heard a lot. "What you doing there, Boy?" and "Boy, you got a name?" Must be the two most common questions in the world. Sometime around the age of nine or ten he had stopped answering both questions. 

He had learned people didn't ask those questions because they wanted an answer. They didn't care what he was doing or who he was. They just wanted him to know they had nothing but scorn for him. That he was in a place he didn't belong and they wanted him to get. So he stopped answering those questions. That was easy. Then he just stopped answering all the questions. Now he just looked and waited and thought about things. If he needed to answer the question, he answered it. But he was done answering questions people asked just so they could feel better than him. He was done being the bastard people got their joy out of spitting their questions on. He went through the world and let folks talk all they wanted at him. 

"You want a drink?" the familiar voice asked.

This was a question he wanted to answer. Yes, he wanted a drink. He had never wanted anything in his life as much as he wanted a drink of water just now.

He opened his eyes and met the eyes of a young man not much older than himself. "Welcome back to the land of the living. Let me help you up and give you that drink."

Hands he couldn't see raised his head and put a cup to his lips. Fresh cold water tasted wonderful as he swallowed it. Good water was a thing he had learned to appreciate the hard way. If a man went long enough without a drink of water, it got so he could remember to be thankful for water every time he drank. He was such a man. 

"My horse," he said, surprising himself with how soft and weak his voice was. He was almost whispering.

"I turned your little mare out with my saddle horse, she's fine there."

"Thanks."

The voice kept talking, but he stopped listening. The quiet and dark were kind and he slept.

The next time he woke he knew where he was, doctor's office, Pinecrest. "So, looks like someone shot you in the back here." The voice receded as the doctor, assumed he was the doctor, walked away. 

"Here, swallow this." He started away from the hand on the back of his head. He must have dozed again; he hadn't heard anything, suddenly there was just the hand on his head.

"Easy there, fella, no one’s gonna hurt you. Just open your mouth. This will help with the pain." The voice was kind and familiar. He didn't bother to open his eyes. He just opened his mouth and swallowed the bitter liquid.

"Here's some water. Helps wash the taste away."

The water tasted wonderful, but the bitter taste remained.

"My horse?" he managed.

"She's still fine, turned out with mine in the back here. You sleep some more."

He slept, ate the soup he was offered and drank the sweet water. Somewhere in the sleeping and drinking, he realized he was alive and likely to stay that way. He guessed that was just as well. Be a shame to die after so much effort to stay alive.

*********************************************************************

He checked his cinch one more time and gave Gal a small rub on her shoulder with his knuckles as he walked back past her. She looked good; the time turned out up in Strawberry and the week here in the doctor's pasture had done her a world of good. He could tell by looking at her that the doctor had been feeding her oats and maybe corn; she looked to have put on a few pounds. He suspected if the doctor hadn't been real careful, she'd been eating her corn and the doctor's gelding’s corn both. Gal liked her grain and anybody else's if she could sneak in there and get it.

The doctor had treated them both real well. He didn't mind giving him his five dollars, just wished he'd had a bit more to go with it. Still, the doctor said it was plenty and he suspected he'd treated him well there again, not charging near as much as he might have. His wife, having washed his clothes for him and mended his shirt as best she could with a chunk of it missing, would know he only had six dollars. 

He knocked at the door, stood on the back porch and held his hat with his two hands. Mrs. Morton opened the door and smiled at him. "Told you, Heath, you don't need to knock, just come on in."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, although he could never just walk into her house and they both knew it. "I'm leaving, wanted to say good-bye and thank you both again."

Doctor Morton had stood up from the table where he was drinking his last cup of breakfast coffee. "You know you’re welcome to stay, Heath. Give that wound a chance to truly heal."

"Thanks, Doc. I sure appreciate your hospitality, but I'm good to ride." He glanced at the doctor and then kept his eyes more or less on the floor. "I'm beholden to you. I know you saved my life." It came hard to him. As much as these folks had been kind to him, it was hard for him to owe them so much and be unable to do anything to repay the debt.

He'd had men save his life before. He knew he would be dead if Jimmy Wilson hadn't pulled him down behind that rock at Chickamauga. The bullet had gone right through his shirt as it was. An inch or two more to the left, where it would have gone if Jimmy hadn't yanked him down behind that rock, and he would have died there. But that was different. He saved Jimmy's life that same afternoon when he picked that sharpshooter out of the tree, the sharpshooter who killed old Whiskey Amos. There had been a lot of life saving and not saving in the war. You got your life saved and figured it was all even, because if you were alive there was a chance that the man who’d done the saving would get saved by you someday. It all sort of worked out, the saving in the war. Even in the mine it had a way of seeming okay. Someone dug you out and that meant there were more to dig when he needed saved.

This was different. He was riding away. Would probably never see this man again. No way he could ever pay what he owed to this man. He kept his head ducked, embarrassed to look the man in the eye, knowing how he was doing him wrong. 

"Glad to help you, Heath. That's why I'm a doctor. Wish you would stay a bit longer. You're far from healed yet." 

"Needs must do." He gave the doctor a half smile, thought it must be a very fine thing to be able to save a man's life by what you knew. 

The doctor extended his hand to him and they shook. Then, there being nothing more to say, he nodded to Mrs. Morton and walked out the door. 

The step up to Gal's saddle was a long one for the pain in his side, but nothing he couldn't manage. The doctor and his wife stood on their back porch to watch him leave. He touched his hat to them, put Gal into her easy jog and headed west back through town.

The doctor told him he'd be tired for a few weeks while his body made up the blood he'd lost on the side of the trail. Told him to drink plenty of liquids and eat a lot of meat. He figured with only a dollar, he'd be drinking plenty of water and eating a lot of rabbit. Still, he liked rabbit and water, didn't really mind. So he stopped at the general store and he bought Gal some oats and himself some coffee and stuck his remaining 4 bits in his pocket. 

He considered his Uncle Matt as he rode out of town. He guessed he should ride up and see if there was enough left to bury. Didn't seem right, to just leave him there, the back shooting, child beating drunk that he was. He guessed he should bury him if the scavengers had left enough of him on the side of the trail. Then he wondered just how he would do that, having no shovel? He considered taking him into Strawberry for his Aunt Martha to bury, but couldn't see that working out in any useful way. Probably just end up with him getting shot again. Still, he couldn't see how he could leave him on the side of the trail.

The week at the doctor's brought spring fully to the mountains. The green grass was mostly tall enough now to hide all the dead grass from the previous year. The hillsides were bright with the new growth. He could see the early flowers blooming on some of the trees folks had planted in the little yards on the edge of town. 

He wondered about the dogwood he had planted. He wondered if it had lived. He hoped Miss Rachel might take it a bit of water. Wasn't that long a walk from Mama's well to where she was buried. Still, it might be too far for Miss Rachel to carry a bucket of water. He hadn't asked. He hoped, when she visited the grave and saw the little dogwood, she might think of it.

In the end, he rode the extra eight miles up the Strawberry Road where he had been ambushed. He had no trouble finding the place. Not likely to forget it. The old pine stump was still there with the deadfall all around it. He rode up to his Uncle Matt and could see a few bits of bone and cloth. His boots were both there and his rifle. Not much burying needed. Heath gathered up what he could find. Walked a big circle around the boots and picked up a couple of other bones as he found them, he wrapped everything in his uncle's hat. It all fit in his hat and his boots. He carried his load down to the stream and buried the whole mess under a pile of rocks. 

He stood and looked at the pile with his hat in his hands for a minute and wondered if he should say some words. He decided, on the whole, he had nothing to say about his Uncle Matt that he wanted to share with the Lord. Better for all concerned for God to judge his uncle on what the Lord knew. Heath wasn't going to be asking any favors for the old man.

He picked up his uncle's rifle where it had fallen near his body. The metal parts already showed rust from the time outside. It wasn't a very good rifle. Probably why he missed. He never had cared for his tools. He supposed the rifle belonged to his Aunt Martha now. In the end, he walked down and put the rifle barrel down in the rocks over his uncle's grave. Let it be his marker.

Satisfied, he called Gal over, tightened her cinch and put the bridle back on her. He would normally have pulled her saddle while he messed about, but he'd found it a heavy load to lift that morning and figured he would let Gal tote it today instead of him. They weren't riding far and she'd been eating some better than him the last two weeks.

He turned her head back down the mountain and, paying more attention then he had the last time he rode this way, heeled her into a jog. 

He was in no hurry to get to Stockton. Didn't know quite what he would do when he got there. Couldn't do any ranch work with a hole in his side. Couldn't eat if he didn't work. He rode Gal down the mountain trail and then about half a mile off to the north of the Stockton Road. He didn't want anyone dropping in on his camp tonight. He was afraid he might sleep deep because of being tired and weak. Didn't want to get surprised, especially having no handgun.

Down at the lower elevation there was a lot more spring grass. He removed Gal's tack, turned her out to graze and gathered wood for a small fire in amongst some big boulders. Fifteen minutes after turning Gal out, he had a nice rabbit, shot and cleaned. He had the rabbit roasted and eaten in another half hour but left Gal grazing until it was getting on toward dark. 

Calling her over, he fed her some of the oats he’d gotten in Pinecrest. While Gal lipped around in the short grass for any single oat she might have missed, he brushed her back, checked her legs and feet and tacked her up again.

He rode back over toward the road a little ways to a stream and watered Gal and himself. He washed in the cold mountain water as best he could. He took time to remove the bandage around his middle and put the ointment the doctor had given him on the wound. Then he wrapped it in the clean bandage Mrs. Morton had rolled up for him. He used a bit of his soap to wash out the used bandage and then draped it over his shoulder to dry as he rode Gal across the stream and up into the hills. In the early darkness, he found a stand of pine trees and decided it looked a good spot.

He untacked Gal and tied her up, didn't want to take a chance on someone sneaking off with her in the dark, him sleeping too soundly and not hearing. Then he moved back about 300 yards to the north of his campsite and hid his rifle wrapped in his slicker.

He hated not having a second gun. He liked to have one hid and one handy. With only the one firearm, he decided he would hide the one and rely on his knife if someone came into his camp. He didn't like it though, it reduced a man's options. But he knew he wouldn't sleep at all if he didn't have a place to fall back to from his camp. A man needed a place to retreat to if he got into more trouble then he could handle all at once.

He laid a fire for the morning and got out his coffee makings so they would be handy. He found a nice soft place in the pine needles, spread out his ground cloth and tipped up his saddle. He pulled his saddlebags in close, took off his boots and lay down. It was his first night sleeping out in almost two weeks. The ground was hard against the healing wound in his back, but he figured he was so tired he wouldn't mind in a few minutes.

Come morning there was a layer of ice on his blanket where his breath had frozen in the night. He moved slowly under the blanket, stiff with the cold and tightness where the bullet had gone in his side. After a minute stretching a bit under the blanket, he sighed to himself and sat up. Boy howdy, it was a cool morning. He could still see the last of the stars just beginning to fade with the coming light. He was close enough to the mountains that the light was a bit late coming. Looked like being a good clear day, sure been a clear night, as cold as it was in his bedroll. He reached over, put a match to the fire he'd laid last night and watched the dry pine needles catch his kindling. Pine didn't last long, but it made a good cheery fire. He shoved the coffee water in close to the heat and shook his boots out before pulling them on. 

His coffee water heating and his boots on, he stood up and stretched carefully. Didn't take much stretching, or much moving at all to make that doctor's handiwork start hurting. He guessed he'd had such a big hole, there just hadn't been enough skin left to cover it up proper. Made the skin he had left stretch a bit. He knew about stretching new skin to cover old wounds. His back had reminded of that every time he grew a inch for the past five years. He figured he was about done growing so that at least wouldn't be a problem with this stomach hole. It would fill in just fine in a little while and he could wait it out. He'd spend a week up here in the hills, eat rabbit and drink water, and then head down to Stockton.

He put a little of his canteen water in his cup and did a quick shave while he waited on his coffee. Working by feel in the dark, he was glad that even if he missed a bit, being so fair-haired, it wouldn't show too much. Long experience had taught him the places he was most likely to miss and he thought he had it pretty clean. He rubbed his hand over his freshly shaven face and wondered who he thought was going to see him. Still, it was Sunday and on Sundays he shaved fresh and washed. His mama would expect him to do that even if no one but the Lord saw him.

He rinsed out his cup and poured himself his first cup of the day. Taking the hot coffee, he walked over to Gal and poured her out a bit more of the oats on the ground. Then, he leaned up against her while she ate, he watched the sun come up from behind the mountains. The white snow on the peaks caught the color before sun showed and glowed red for a few minutes before the sun came into sight. Was a beautiful sunrise. 

He drank a second cup as the last of the sun rose up behind the peaks. Looking off to the west, he could see the Central Valley stretching off to the horizon already bright beyond the shadow of the Sierra Nevadas. He allowed his mind to touch on Stockton and the Central Valley for just a moment the same way he might let his tongue touch a sore tooth. He didn't want to spend too much time thinking on it. He couldn't leave it be, but he didn't want to spend too much time thinking on it.

Kicking the dirt over his fire, he picked up his bedroll and shook out the pine needles before rolling his ground cloth around his blanket. He quickly saddled Gal and poured the last of the coffee into his cup. The last cup was always his favorite, more of the grounds mixing into the coffee and giving it some chew. He worked on his last cup as he wandered up into the rocks to retrieve his rifle and slicker with Gal following about twenty feet behind him.

He rode back down into the meadow near the stream and allowed Gal a couple of hours grazing while he cleaned his rifle and re-wrapped his side with the bandage he'd washed out the night before. The wound looked pretty good. It was still seeping a bit on the lower end and where the doctor had pulled out the stitches the day he left, but he thought the man had done a good job. 

He washed out the spare bandage and hung it over his saddle to dry. Then, figured since he was doing a wash anyway, he took off his shirt and washed that out too. He considered changing into his good shirt but decided, no reason to get carried away, he'd just save his good shirt and shied away in his own mind from what he might be saving it for. His mama had always told him he should have a good shirt for 'best'. And he left it at.

A week of rabbit roasted, rabbit baked in the coals and rabbit stewed with wild onions and the few early greens he fought Gal for in her grazing area, and he was about done with rabbit. The wound on his side had a good strong growth of skin over it. He could pick up his saddle now with ease and figured it was time to head down to the valley. Besides, he only had enough coffee left for two more pots. He was going to need more coffee.

*******************

Noon found him riding past a few smallholdings and he knew he was close to town. Gal was feeling good, shied from a rabbit that did nothing but pop out of a hole a good fifteen feet from anywhere to do with her line of travel. Not a quarter a mile later, she took exception to a covey of quail breaking cover. All those oats and no work, two things she wasn't really accustomed to, and she felt pretty full of herself. When he hurt, she minded her P's and Qs as if she knew in her way that he was riding sore. Today she could feel he was sitting stronger and she was pushing on him a might. He felt like pushing a might himself.

The valley was flat. The morning was cool. He could see five miles down the road, straight and flat along the side of the railroad track. He let Gal move into a canter and held her to a slow lope to let her work off some of that grain. Five minutes later, he could heard a train and pulled her down to a slow jog to make sure she wouldn't take exception to its passing her.

He watched the cars go by. An engine, woodcar/tender behind it, three passenger cars with people sitting in them watching the country pass and then a big black car with Barkley Ranch written on the side of it in gold letters. Barkley Ranch. He touched Gal to keep up to that car while he studied the writing. Barkley Ranch. 

Him riding through the valley on his little black mare, no breakfast in his belly but three cups of coffee and some cold rabbit. He could see a man, watching him out the window of that car, that Barkley Ranch car, riding through the country in his own train, in his Barkley Ranch Train. 

Heath leaned forward across Gal's withers and spoke softly into her ear. "Run, little girl. Don't need our own train to run down these tracks. You run, little girl." And Gal ran. She was a good horse when you had a hole in your side. She would keep you in the saddle if she was able, move to balance your weight. She was a good mare if you needed a horse to pull an old wagon with your Mama dead in her coffin in the back. But if you needed to beat a Barkley Train down the Central Valley, she was a great horse. 

He moved forward a little further and moved his weight up on her withers a bit more where it was easier for her to carry it running. It hurt his stomach some but he figured, for the time it would take him to beat the Barkley Train, he could take a little pain. She had moved past the Barkley Ranch car and was up to the second passenger car before they had covered a quarter mile. He could see folks in the windows. Some had their windows open in spite of the cinders flying back from the engine, cheering her on. Took less then half a mile to pass all three-passenger cars and pull up near to the engine. Gal began to slow a bit by this time. She was fast, but she was no long distance racehorse. She was little and quick on her feet for the short run. She could go the long distance but not at this speed. He knew he needed to finish this fast now or the train would just wear her down. 

He spoke to her again. "You want to run?" he asked her. And she said she did, gave him another burst of speed. He used it to catch the engine. Glad to see a cut off a few hundred yards down the track he gave her a hard squeeze and cut in front of the train. Allowed her to run on for another two hundred yards before pulling her up. She blew a bit, but not bad. 

He watched the train pass and then looked back down the track, thinking. Well, that was just plain dumb, Heath. What would your mama say? But he figured start to finish hadn't been much more than a mile, if that. A fair run for Gal but not too bad, except that last stupid pass in front of the train. That had been prideful and he knew it. That had been him not letting any Barkley Train pass him by without him showing his heels. He stepped out of the saddle and loosened the cinch to walk her out a little way. Wouldn't do him any harm to walk a ways and think on that cut in front of the train and nearly getting his horse killed, just so no Barkley Train could pass him by. 

He couldn't believe the Barkley's had a train. It set him to thinking on the whole mess of Heath Thomson. He walked and he thought on Barkleys and trains and fathers who made babies and never looked back to see what became of them. He thought about children who had trains, and children who didn't have a train or much of anything else, come to that. What else did children who had trains have? What must it be like to have your own train?

He walked further than he might have, lost in thought about trains and Barkleys until he realized his feet hurt with all that walking. He cinched Gal up again and remounted, still not sure what he should do about Barkleys. He thought he would like to see it. See what Thomas Barkley, rancher, mine owner, father of two sons and a daughter, had not shared with his mama. What Thomas Barkley, rancher, had built with his life while his mama washed shirts for miners and tried to raise his bastard. 

He rode along at a slow jog, thinking all around the problem of Thomas Barkley and Heath Thomson. He had time to think on this and didn't want to do something he couldn't walk away from in one piece. He could ride on through Stockton and never come this way again. He'd never stopped in Stockton in his twenty years and never missed the stopping. But he knew he wouldn't ride through. He would look. He had come here to look. He had left Pinecrest, because he was in a fever to look. He wanted to see the Barkleys; two sons and a daughter, Jarrod, a lawyer, Nick, a rancher, and Audra; two brothers and a sister; three heirs and a bastard.

Stockton was a big place. Not like San Francisco but a big town with more than one store, three saloons and a big Cattleman's Restaurant and Hotel. Heath rode down the main street slowly, looking to both sides. Nice town, even had a newspaper of its own and a bank. He wondered if the Barkleys owned the bank? He rode all the way through town to the livery where he stopped and tied Gal so she could reach the water trough. He loosened her cinch and left her on a long rein. Pulled his rifle from the scabbard and walked into the livery.

"Straight down the main road seven miles you'll see the ranch sign, another two miles to the headquarters." He guessed they didn't own a railroad, then, no tracks to their ranch, just owned the train. He tightened Gal's cinch, headed down the main road at a walk and thought about the surrounding country. He drew a quick map in his head, pulled Gal off the main road and headed northwest along a narrow horse trail. He didn't feel like riding along the dusty road on such a nice day. Seeing the narrow horse trail, he suspected it was a short cut to the ranch that bypassed the wagon road. Fifteen minutes after leaving the road, he was rewarded when the trail headed into a few aspens along a stream and turned more westerly.

Another twenty minute of riding and he came to a suspension bridge across the stream. The bridge didn't appeal to him sloping down from the steep riverbank to within ten feet of the water before climbing back up the opposite side. It looked old, but the ropes on his side appeared strong and well tarred against the elements. One glance at the spring runoff in the river told him he didn't want to be swimming that cold fast water, so he kneed Gal onto the bridge and let her pick her way carefully across.

The sound of the river was so loud he didn't hear the other horse start across the bridge until the rider spoke to him. "Good afternoon."

The other rider was a big man, not heavy but tall and straight with a boom to his voice that spoke of confidence and authority. Gal stopped as he relaxed the pressure of his legs to look up at the man. Nice horse, like the man, big and strong looking with plenty of confidence. Rich gear, a fine leather vest with silver conchos and a big wide brimmed hat looked like new. 

"Afternoon," he returned as he leaned forward with his hands crossed on the saddle horn to take some of the pressure off his stomach. Stupid chasing that train, he had been feeling pretty good before that fool trick and now his stomach hurt and his head ached. 

"Quite a pony you got there." Wasn't the first crack someone had made about Gal's small stature. He had long ago learned to treat them with the same disregard he did with most things he didn't care to hear.

"Yeah, she's a runner."

He was beginning to enjoy this now. He hadn't spoken to a person, aside from the directions to the Barkley Ranch at the livery, in a week. He didn't mind going long times alone, didn't miss watching his back among strangers. But he was happy to exchange a few words with this big, rich man who seemed to be in the way of some fun. "Modoc." 

"Well, they breed 'em right up there." 

He allowed himself to feel the humor of what was coming, although he didn't share any of that with the man across the span from him. What he thought and felt weren't for sharing and he had learned, long ago, to hold his feelings and thoughts very close. "Except for one thing." 

"And what's that?" 

He looked at the dark man sadly. "They don't know how to back up, so if you'll just pull that crockhead off this bridge…" 

The other man frowned. Perhaps he shouldn't have run the man's horse down, he thought, but that crack about his little pony still rankled a bit. 

"Well, now I'd gladly do that for you, boy, except for one thing." 

He let the 'boy' slide. Man didn't know him, was just being big and rich and used to walking down the middle of the sidewalk, was all. He knew his type. "What's that?"

"This one's a Modoc too." 

He almost smiled at that. Good for him, that was good. Instead, he took off his hat and fanned his face glanced up at the sun. "Hot, ain't it?" 

"Yeah, you can really raise a sweat this time of year. –That's a fine-looking blowpipe you got there." 

He wasn't sure where the man was going with this but he figured he'd let him run with it. Most enjoyment he'd gotten out of talking to another man in a year. He'd forgotten that there could be pleasure in just the meeting and speaking to folks. Sometimes he forgot that all folks weren't like the ones he mostly knew. 

"Mexican." He knew that old rifle was nothing special to look at, especially the little bit of the old stock the rancher could see from where he was sitting. 

"That a fact?" 

"Got the bite to blow the head off a grizzly." He looked directly at the man. Figured he was a big man, but not as big as a grizzly.

"That is, if you get to it in time." 

He thought briefly of trying to draw the rifle from the scabbard back on the trail two weeks ago, knowing that back shooter was walking up on him. But didn't allow that momentary flash of remembrance to ruin this pleasure. "Don't need to. Just think it. Eyeball or button I want to pop, and pow." Eyeball or button, dead Secesh officers all over Tennessee and Mississippi wouldn't be able to argue that, eyeball or button and pop. 

With all the insolence of the rich of the world, the rancher, because this rich man was no cowboy with his fancy vest and big horse; no this was a man of property; the rancher pulled his vest aside to let Heath see the dark wood of his side arm and bragged, "English." 

Yeah, that would figure, too good for an American handgun and him with none at all. Got to get his gun all the way from across the world. "Do tell." He didn't allow any of the scorn he felt to the man's imported gun to reach his voice. Man couldn't help it if he was too rich for a good American gun. Let him shoot what he wanted. 

"Core an apple at a half a mile." 

Didn't figure the English handgun was any better then an American one, if as good, and it sure didn't have any magical powers. Man making himself bigger to match his bragging on his rifle. 

"On the tree or falling?" Give the man some rope to run out with.

When the man came back, "On horseback, in a hurricane," he could have laughed. The man was quick with his mouth. 

The sudden movement of the bridge and its noise startled him, and startled he moved. A man didn't live long if he couldn't back up his words. A moment later he was glad for the sore stomach that had slowed his draw as he and Gal hit the water, the broken bridge falling about them. 

He might have murdered that man over a little joshing on a bright afternoon. ‘Cause there was no way that man could have cleared his gun before he and that rifle were out of the saddle firing. He looked back over his shoulder and caught the rancher looking back at him. All the humor seemed gone from the man's face. He wasn't sure if it was because of the dunking in the river or if the man realized how close he had come to getting killed?

He shook his head to himself. Still a might jumpy from the shooting up by Strawberry. Just when he thought he put 'shoot first, look later' behind him, something would come to prove his reflexes right and his intentions wrong. He might have murdered that man for a few words said in fun. 

He rode Gal up on the bank and away into the trees before glancing back once more to make sure the trail was out of sight. Sure he was alone and hidden from any chance passers, he dismounted carefully. He had landed that sore spot on his stomach smack on top of the saddle horn. He opened his shirt, afraid of what he might find. No blood was good but he could see where he had torn the new skin a bit along the edges. It'd felt like he'd punched that horn clean through to his backbone, so could have been worse. 

He stripped the saddle and bridle off Gal and let her loose to graze while he dried out his gear. He hung Gal's blanket and his good shirt on the limb of a tree to dry. His Mama's Bible, the letter and picture wrapped in their oilcloth bag were fine, but he left the bag in the sun to dry. He wiped the excess water off his saddle and saddlebags with a couple of handfuls of last year's grass and laid them in the sun. 

While Gal wandered in the sparse brush grazing the spring grass, he took his rifle apart and carefully cleaned and oiled it, rubbing the stock with the oil rag. When he was satisfied with the rifle, he dried off the excess oil with a dry rag he kept his gun tools wrapped in and began on the rest of his gear. He dug the little tin of neatsfoot out of his saddlebag and began oiling his tack. 

While he worked he thought on what he was doing here on some back trail to the Barkley Ranch. That got him to thinking on the big rancher and the bridge. Since he supposed he was on a back trail to Thomas Barkley's Ranch. Could that man have been from the ranch? Could he have been one of Thomas Barkley's sons? One of his other sons? 

He thought on that while he rubbed the oil into his saddle and cleaned off the excess with a second rag. Could be his brother? He wanted to open up the Bible and take out the newspaper piece again and see if that man looked like the picture of Thomas Barkley. But he knew there would be no point. He had studied on that picture for hours while lying in the bed in the doctor's house. He could have met the great man himself and not recognized him from that faded clipping. 

Still, how many big, rich men would be riding the back road to the Barkley Ranch? He played that word softly across his lips. "Brother." There was a world of power in that word. Finished with his housekeeping, he leaned back against the saddle and pulled his hat over his eyes. He was hungry and tired. Not much he could do about hungry but he sure could fix tired. Doctor had said he'd be a while to get strong again. He thought all and all he felt pretty good for a man near dead two weeks ago. Last time he'd nearly died had taken him most of six months to get strong enough to work again. 

Yup, old Uncle Matt had tried to kill him for twenty years and never had made much of a job of it. Just made him harder for someone else to kill and now Matt Simmons was dead. He felt some satisfaction in that, though he knew he shouldn't. He should feel a sense of Christian forgiveness. He thought though, on careful consideration, that Uncle Matt might be a man the Old Testament could better deal with than New. The Old Testament wouldn't mind him feeling some satisfaction that the man was scattered along the banks of the Stanislaus. Certainly, no one else had seemed to care. When he told the Sheriff in Pinecrest he'd been back shot up near Strawberry man hadn't cared a whit. Said he had all he could do keeping the peace in Pinecrest. So he guessed only ones who cared about Uncle Matt being a dead back shooter were maybe him and his Aunt Martha and the Lord. 

Gal woke him up, probably two hours after he fell asleep. Feeling ashamed of himself, sleeping away the best part of the afternoon, he tacked her up and continued down the narrow trail along the riverbank. 

**************************

It was late afternoon when he rode out of the warm valley sunshine, summer down here already in May, and into the shade of a stand of mature white pines. He stepped down off Gal and led her slowly through the big trees as he admired their tall straight trunks and enjoyed the break from the heat and sun. Normally, he liked the heat. He enjoyed the feel of the heat on his muscles as he worked, the heat of the sun and the heat of the work building the sweat on his back and chest. He surely liked that better than the perpetual cold and dark of the work underground, where a man could work all day and never feel the real heat of his labor. But this was the first warm day of the season and he felt the heat in his head, made him dizzy and tired. He supposed it was the sleeping half the afternoon away had made him lazy.

At the edge of the clearing, he found a single grave, surrounded by a little picket fence so low it wouldn't keep out a rabbit. He surely couldn't see the purpose of that fence. It was planted all around with flowers, most of them eaten by the rabbits that the fence had done nothing to prevent. Pure foolishness, he thought as he walked over to look at the stone on the grave. 

Well, Boy Howdy, he thought, the big man himself. Thomas Barkley 1813-1869 buried here behind a fence couldn't even keep squirrels from tramping on his flowers. He stood and looked at the big marble stone at the head of the grave. He was sorry he decided on the whole that he had never gotten to at least see the man. To see what had made his mother act so foolishly that it had ruined her life and made his. 

He guessed it was either being so surprised to find the old man buried here in the middle of the range, far from the fancy cemetery he had expected. Or else it was the ache in his head that hadn't stopped since the bridge came down with him, but he never heard the horse come up behind him. First thing he knew, someone was beating him about the head, the sore, achy head. He reached up toward the blows, grabbed an arm and ducked back and pulled his assailant over his head. 

One thing you learned fast in the infantry was how to deal with mounted attackers. If you couldn't unhorse the other man first he killed you. Was just a plain question of weight. With the weight of the horse and the height of the horse, a mounted man would win every time if you couldn't get him on the ground. 

He'd begun his schooling on fighting when he was six and then later he'd had the advantage of three years of serious schooling on killing, on killing on foot, on horse back, in wagons, in ditches and behind stonewalls. He figured most of his life had been spent learning to either fight or kill. The staying alive part was just a gift he had. He'd seen plenty of men, better fighters than him, dead from bad luck while he lived. So all and all, he thought his gift was staying alive and his skill was fighting and killing. He was good with horses and knew a fair amount about cattle but he considered himself an expert on killing folk, up close and at a distance. 

He'd learned the hard way - if a man attacks you, attack back harder; a man hits you, hit him back harder. Wasn't a hard lesson to learn, not always easy to apply but easily learned. So when the horseman hit him on the head, he pulled hard, turned under the weight and threw himself down on top of the body, ready to do some serious damage. 

Only trouble was he'd never had a girl attack him before. Didn't quite know what he was supposed to do. She had some sort of little whip thing in her hand. He hung on to her wrist to keep her from hitting him with her whip while getting as far from her as he could, because a girl who went around on a big horse hitting strangers, was for sure some kind of trouble. 

He pushed himself as far away as he could while keeping a hold of the wrist of her whip hand to make sure she didn't come at him again while he wrapped his other arm around his sore middle. He guessed between train races, bridge crashes and wrestling girls, he should have spent another week in the Sierras before riding down to civilization. He caught his breath with some difficulty, and said "For the love of…"

"Get off of me." 

Not bothering to point out to her that he was already as far away as he could get he said, "A cat. A blond-haired…" The awful truth of it slowly dawned on him. Thomas Barkley's grave, a blond, blue-eyed girl, a sister. He looked at her with amazement.

"Off me." She sure was angry, almost spitting, just like a cat.

"Blue-eyed," his mama had green eyes. Rachel and Hannah had brown eyes. She had blue eyes and blond hair the same as he did. A sister. He was silent, almost overcome with the wonder of it.

"I'll feed you to the wolves. I'll cream you! You're hurting." She was clawed at his hand with her free hand, not making much progress, her gloves saved him from any damage from her nails, 'cause he was sure, like a cat, she would have claws.

"Drop it." Sister or not, no one whipped him with a little whip or a big whip, could he help it. She opened her hand and he took the little thing and threw it off into the woods. Nasty little thing, no good except to pain a man or a horse.

"I planted those flowers."

"So?"

"You were tramping on them. I saw you. Who are you?" He wanted to ask her if she had built the stupid little fence. He knew there was no point in telling her he hadn't trampled the flowers. He knew a 'What do you want here, boy?' conversation when he heard one. She wanted him gone. Him not good enough to even walk on the same earth as her father's grave. 

"I was about to ask you the same thing." He couldn't let it go. He was still caught in the wonder of this sister. He wanted to listen to her talk. Watch the play of the sun and shadows on her long blond hair. Now that she wasn't so angry, her eyes were lighter and her face even prettier. He guessed she was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. He wanted to touch her hair. He wanted her to smile at him. Say, "Hello, how are you," as impossible as that would be. But he would be satisfied if he could just get her to talk for a little while.

"I don't have to tell you that." She stood up, walked over and picked up her little whip thing. He began to think that the man on the bridge, dark as he'd been, was indeed her brother. The arrogance, the confidence, the walk down the middle of the sidewalk and twitch your skirts away from the little bastard were the same. Made him pretty sure why they'd never seen the great Thomas Barkley in Strawberry looking for his little bastard son. Not these high and mighty people. People like this didn't have little bastards in mining towns. God, he bet their dogs didn't even get bred out of season.

"No, ma'am, I guess you don't." He stood up as well, brushed the dirt from his britches and looked at the tear in the pocket of his shirt. He'd have to make this shirt into rags pretty soon the rate it was going. Make his best shirt his work shirt and just have nothing for getting buried in. Just take his chances to stay alive long enough to earn enough money to buy a shirt for dying in. 

"Audra Barkley."

"Then…" Yup, then indeed he thought. He wanted to ask her if the big, black haired, arrogant man was her brother but couldn't think of any way to make that come out right.

"He was my father." Bet she always knew that. Bet he came home every night after riding on his train and told this little girl she was his daughter. He almost laughed, she was so proud of her father.

"Well, then I am sorry." He was sorry too. Sorry for her that her father was dead. Sorry for him that the father she loved so much was the one he hated. Sorry for, he wasn't even sure what. But suddenly he felt such a sorrow about the whole miserable thing, he just wanted to ride away.

"What are you doing her anyway? Who are you? You're not from around here?" Might have asked first and hit later, he thought and glanced at her little whip again.

"I was on my way to your place, looking for work. I got fouled up in the woods there and ran across this grave. It's not a likely place for a grave," or at least for a grave for the high and mighty Thomas Barkley, rancher, miner and fornicator. Trees worked to mark his mama's cemetery but he figured Thomas Barkley for fancy wrought iron gates and stonewalls.

"He died here. It's where they shot him. A thousand people came from the valley to bury him. He was that kind of man."

"I know."

"What do you mean, you know?"

"I mean I know what it's like to be without your father." He'd had enough of her. Of her pride and arrogance. He just wanted away from her now. He wanted time to think this through, this sister thing. He looked at her again and tried to make a memory of her face. "If you tell me the way, I'll be off."

"There's a trail about 10 yards off in the woods. It'll take you to the road leading up to the ranch." She pointed off into the woods the way he'd come. He nodded and mounted Gal, looked at her again. He wondered if she would be as beautiful if she'd been washing miners clothes from the time she was six, if she'd been emptying chamber pots in the early morning hours wearing a dress two sizes too big for her. "See my brother Nick. He does the hiring."

He looked at her considered for a moment, done talking now. Wondered where all his words had come from. 

See my brother Nick. Well, thank you, fair lady, for all your condescension. He was reminded of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in Miss Rachel's Pride and Prejudice, so kind to the poor relatives so long as they remembered their place. He does the hiring. He sighed and gave her a half smile. "I'll do that." Then he touched the brim of his battered hat and turned Gal away. 

He jogged for a few hundred yards and then pulled Gal back down to a walk. He needed to do some thinking on where he was going next. Did he ride north from here and head back up to the Klamath or south to the Barkley Ranch and get an eye full of his 'family’?

*******************

In the end he hadn't really had any choice about the shirt. His blue shirt had the hole mended in the left side of it. Mrs. Morton had tried to match the fabric, but the patch was the blue the shirt had been two years ago. It was now, where it was any of its original color, faded almost to white. The fight with the girl had half torn the chest pocket off, but the worst of it was the dark brown stain from the blood all over the front of it, further heightened by grass stains all down the one side. He stopped and pulled out his good shirt from the saddlebag. It was wrinkled from the washing in the river but it was clean, had all its buttons and only the one small hole mended in the sleeve. He carefully folded the blue shirt and put it in the saddlebag. He could mend the pocket. It would still make a good work shirt, but he didn't need to be showing that bloodstain around while he was looking for work.

He'd seen houses like this in Tennessee, Mississippi. He didn't know there were any in California. He'd seen big Spanish haciendas in the south of California, but he didn't know there were any of the big plantation houses in California. He rode Gal right up to the front porch, wanting to get a good look at the house. It was grand. Big white pillars all along the front porch, great huge windows, the whole thing two floors high with big windows all around it. 

He felt proud. When he'd seen the train, he'd been angry. Angry that old man had so much money he could buy a train but couldn't share enough of his gold to keep them from freezing in the winter. 

But this was different. He'd been in a house like this once when he was delivering dispatches for the Colonel to General Woods. But grand as that house was, it wasn't as fancy as this one with its trees and flowers. This was probably the grandest house in California and his family owned it. A man couldn't help but feel a bit of pride in that. He sat Gal about ten feet from that big front porch, just studying on the house. No wonder that girl thought she was a fancy lady out of some book. She maybe was, coming from a place like this.

Movement caught his eye so he looked down from his admiration of all those fancy windows and wondering how they kept them all so clean looking? Two men were walking around from the back of the house on that fancy front verandah. He took off his hat and leaned forward slightly, balancing his weight on the horn of his saddle as he looked at the big dark rancher from the bridge. 

"Small world, ain't it?" He greeted the man offering him a small smile in remembrance of the bantering of the morning.

So this was his brother, had to be, walking so proud down the verandah of that fancy house. He didn't know if he was more amazed at the brother part of it or the sheer magnitude of the gap between his world and this world. The wonder of what it must be to be a Barkley, a real Barkley, not a forgotten bastard abandoned in some godforsaken mining town so far into the Sierras no one ever heard of it. What must it be to be a Barkley with this house, that fancy English pistol, that rich father?

"Something for you?" He even sounded rich. Standing there so proud of all he had, his head up high so he could try and look down his nose at him, up above in the saddle. Hard to look down your nose at a man three feet above your head, but he figured the big rancher had managed. Must be the result of a lifetime of being better than everyone around you.

"Mr. Barkley, if you know where I can find him?"

"Take your choice."

He looked at them, at the two of them looking so clean and proud in their fancy clothes on their fancy porch, and almost shook his head with the wonder of it. He wanted to just sit and stare until he could remember their faces clearly.

"Well, I was told Nick did the hiring." He was glad he had come. When he first saw the fancy house, he was amazed, but that was nothing to the fancy brothers. They were so happy to be there, hands on each other's shoulders, so proud. 

"Of what?" The big rancher all but sneered at him, the supplicant come begging work at his fancy house.

He gave him a small half smile. Well, maybe his father hadn't left him some fancy ranch or a big house with pillars but he had plenty of pride too.

"Well, line boss, hay waddy, hasher, cow prod, jingler. You name it. I've done it." When you're not born with a fancy house and a rich father who bothers to take care of you, then you get to do plenty. He stared into that rich rancher's eyes, those rich brother eyes and waited for him to sneer again. 

"What's your name?" He turned his eyes toward this other brother. This would be the lawyer brother, Jarrod, all fancy in his suit. Who wore his suit in the middle of the day on his own front porch? He bet the man had more then one suit. Bet he had a whole house full of suits, suddenly conscious that he was wearing his last shirt. He sure was glad he hadn't worn that bloody, torn, faded blue shirt where these men, these brothers, could see his poverty. 

The very richness that he had wondered at a few moments before began to turn in his stomach. He blinked his eyes a couple of times to settle his anger. He'd learned a long time ago to manage his rage. He saved it up for when he needed it. A man couldn't go through life just letting his rage loose every time it felt like going. He had to save it for when he needed it, like when he's bleeding to death on the side of the trail and needs a good head of anger to get on his horse. A man didn't waste his anger where it would do no one any good. He sure didn't waste it on rich kin who didn't even know he existed.

"Heath," he told him simply, the rest of it being no business of theirs. He answered all their questions without telling them anything, none of their concern where he was from or where he'd been. They wanted to know about his life, the time to ask was twenty years ago. Now his life was no concern of theirs.

The big rancher didn't want him. That surprised him a bit. He thought the big man had enjoyed the sparring on the bridge as much as he had. Guessed he didn't like that they had fallen into the same river. Didn't like that he hadn't gotten to shoot him dead with his fancy English pistol. Didn't like that he hadn't won the face-off on the bridge. He bet this big rancher wasn't used to not winning.

In the end, his older brother Jarrod had spoken for him. Told Nick to hire him. Had spoken right up for him like he knew they were brothers. Gave him a warm feeling and he nodded his thanks to the man when Nick finally relented and told him he was hired. He touched the brim of his hat to the two men, nodded to Jarrod and turned Gal away from the fancy house to ride around back to where the hired help lived. 

**************

Nick had clearly decided that forced by Jarrod to hire him, he would try and get him to quit. Nick had put him to digging an irrigation ditch connecting a proposed peach orchard with an existing canal two miles away. Thankfully he put him on the job alone. 

He knew Nick had done this to make him quit. Nick had sent a crew of 12 men to work the ditch into the peach grove at the other end of this section of the valley. Nick had sent him to work on this ditch alone. Standing there in the yard, rocking on his heels as he gave the assignments, smirking at him as he sent him out, daring him to complain. He'd just smiled at the big man and touched his hat with his two fingers as he got the assignment.

Every cowboy in California had spent some length of time digging ditches or cleaning irrigation canals. It was part of ranching in a place where all the rain fell in five months and moisture needed to be moved to cattle and crops by ditch. But no one put cowboys to doing this work alone. It was the camaraderie of the labor that made it bearable, the laughing and joking in the cool of the morning, the silent shared misery of the long afternoon when heat and tired bore down hard. Most cowboys would have quit before the day was out, sent to do this work alone.

Had Nick only known that sending him out with a crew would have forced him to quit the first day. No way could he have let the other men see him struggling with the pick. He had to swing the pick the way he did in the mine. Lifting it up only as high as his shoulders, working bent almost double at the waist like a man in a low tunnel. The pain of that new skin covering the hole in his stomach kept that pick low to the ground and him bent like an old man. He was ashamed of his work. Those miserable half full shovels of earth, each one a triumph of his will over his weakness. 

The worst though was the afternoons. Tired by 2:00 he could barely work. Digging for five minutes and then leaning on his shovel for a minute. If he'd been in a crew, he would have been laughed off the ranch before the foreman could have fired him. As it was, by getting out to his ditch before first light and driving himself until 6:00 in the evening he could barely make enough ground to justify his wage to himself. 

Five days of digging, he hadn't made a half-mile of ground. The foreman had come out on the second day and just looked. Fortunately for him, McCall had come in the afternoon when he was working his shovel. 

After the first day, he had taken to doing all the pick work in the morning. Breaking earth for two maybe three hundred yards. Spending the afternoon shoveling it out. The shovel work wasn't so bad as the pull of the pick on the wound in his stomach. That pick was purely painful. Once he had the ground broken, he could just drive himself until he had the earth cleared. 

Then struggle to get the saddle back on Gal and ride back to the ranch, forcing his back straight so he sat tall in the saddle, when his stomach cried out for him to fall forward and lie on the pommel. Next morning he would need to go over the same ground with the pick again, make it deep enough, clean the sides, but he was getting her done.

He stopped each night at the river on the way back to wash himself and his shirt, thankful it was so handy to his work. In the end, he'd had to wear the blue shirt, bloodstain and all. It was wear that shirt or have the other one look like Hades in a day. After a day of digging it didn't really matter anymore about the bloodstain. Both shirts had become a sort of hazy brown from his inexpert washing. At least they didn't stink, he thought, though he wasn't sure who would notice.

He slowed his horse and climbed down. He pulled the shovel and pick off the back of the saddle and dropped them to the ground. Then he pulled off Gal's saddle and bridle and dropped them beside his tools. He gave the little mare a hard slap on her rump and she trotted off about twenty feet before putting her head down and beginning to graze. That mare was sure an eating machine, he smiled to himself. He put the old flour bag with his dish of stew and left over biscuits from the previous night’s dinner in the shade of his saddle, walked over and picked up his tools.

Stepping down into the irrigation ditch, he looked up the slight incline toward the past five days' work. He glanced up at the sky just coming light off to the east. He needed enough light to see the mark laid out for the ditch. It was unseasonably warm again this morning, already over 70 he guessed and not yet fully light. It would be close to 90 by noon.

He glanced down at the blisters on the palms of his hands and gave a half smile to himself. He'd gotten soft palms breaking horses up in Corning. Been a long time since he'd done all this pick and shovel work. He pulled his handkerchief out of his back pocket and wrapped it around his right hand. He picked up the pick and began working his way down that line in the dirt, starting out slow while he waited for his muscles to stretch a bit and warm. Swinging the pick first to the middle of the line so he would stay true, then taking a bite to the right and the left of the first cut, a step forward with his right foot as the pick came up and down again in the middle as he brought his left leg up. He thought he was moving the pick easier than he had at the beginning of the week, although he still couldn't get a good rhythm, feeling no pleasure in the work because of the constant pain.

His brother rode out sometime past 2:00 and sat watching him from the back of his horse as he shoveled the dirt he'd loosened in the morning. Just sitting there watching, not saying anything. Feeling like a horse in a pulling competition, he stopped working and stood with the shovel in his hand, returning Nick's look.

Finally, seeming to begrudge him even those few words, he said, "It’s payday. We quit at 2:00 today. Head back to the ranch." The big cowboy looked up the ditch past him, but said nothing more.

He nodded, stepped out of the ditch and walked away from Nick back up the line to where he'd left his gear in the morning. He whistled to Gal as he walked giving her a chance to come in so he wouldn't need to wait too long on her. Nick rode down to where his saddle lay and waited there for him. 

"I'll ride back with you,” he said. “Saddle-up."

He gave Nick a half smile, pleased at the company of his brother. They said very little as he saddled Gal, but the silence was not unpleasant. Nick seemed to have gotten over his earlier anger at him. 

The forty-five minute ride was a wonder. Occasionally, Nick would comment on some piece of ground they were riding over. A place they calved in the spring, a good meadow to turn out horses, a spot he was considering for an apple orchard. He said nothing but reveled in every word Nick spoke to him.

When they came along the side of the stream he said his good-bye, indicating the water. "Need to stop and wash." 

Nick stopped his horse and sat looking at him a moment without saying anything. He gave him another half smile, almost laughing at himself, so much mirth in one day.

Nick said, "I'll be paying the hands at 5:30. See you then."

He nodded and watched the big man ride away. He took his time at the stream washing himself and his clothes. It felt good after the heat to lie in the cold water and be cool for a while. His shirts dried quickly but it was a struggle to get his pants back on wet. Still, at least he was clean. 

The wound on his stomach was closed up now, and except for the angry redness all about, it looked pretty good. He still wore the bandage to keep the doctor's ointment from coming through his shirt. The doctor said to keep putting it on until it was all gone. Said it would help the new skin to form. He smeared the last of the stuff on and wrapped the bandage around his middle twice. He'd been lucky in his doctor. The man had done a good job. Still he wondered if he could stand another week on that ditch. 

When he got back to the ranch, the hands were lined up outside the bunkhouse. McCall, the foreman, and Nick were sitting at a table on the porch, paying the men one at a time.  
He left Gal saddled and waiting, tied to the fence, and joined the end of the line.

He hadn't been standing there five minutes when Barrett started in again. He knew Barrett wanted a fight. Some men had to beat another man if they thought they could. Couldn't help themselves, like rats if they suspected one of their number was weak or could be taken down. Sensing the weakness, they had to have a go. He'd avoided the fight, not wanting to take a blow to his stomach. Fearing to take such a blow. Fearing what it would do to the wound. He knew Barrett had sensed that fear and read it as weakness. Now a week into it and Barrett was baiting him nonstop. Every time he saw Barrett, the man would start with his shoving and trying to trip him, his nasty cracks and dirty jokes. 

He'd become bored with Barrett after the first day. He was almost ready to just let the man have his fight and take his chances. Maybe tomorrow after Barrett had a good drunk, in the morning while Barrett's head was hurting, he would give him his fight. Now he just gave him a small half smile and touched his hat to him when Barrett slammed into the back of him and knocked him out of line on his way back from being paid. He knew it infuriated Barrett that he couldn't get a response from his heckling. 

"For Christ sakes, Barrett leave the boy alone and get out of here," Nick said, stopping Barrett, who was about to swing at Heath, having finally had enough of his half smiles.

He looked up from his study of Barrett, astonished. Nick had spoken for him. Defended him. Barrett scowled and then turned away, muttering under his breath, "In town, boy, where your babysitter isn't taking care of you." 

He ignored Barrett, all of his attention on Nick who had gone back to counting the money into Dice Taylor's hand. That must be what it's like when your big brother looks out for you. He ducked his head and smiled to himself, holding that moment close, replaying it in his head. "Leave the boy alone." That had been him. He played it over again. He wanted to be sure he would remember it later. Could call up the expression on Nick's face when he'd nodded his head and told Barrett to leave him alone. Watching out for him, taking care of his brother.

He took his $2.50 from Nick, signed his name, touched the brim of his hat to him and nodded to McCall. He knew there would be a fight with Barrett now, either in town or back at the ranch, but he figured the fight was coming any way. But that moment, that "leave the boy alone," moment, had been so fine he didn't mind the fight. Well, he didn't mind it too much.

He didn't join the other hands riding to town. He wasn't going in to drink and play cards. No money for that, but he could finally buy himself a shirt and a piece of soap. If he was going to dig a two-mile ditch, he was sure enough going to need more soap. He swung up on the mare and headed away from the ranch.

****************

Stockton had a very different look on a Saturday night from the previous Monday morning when he'd ridden through. It was still light when he rode in, the sun just disappearing over the edge of the horizon, but already cowboys were racing up and down the main street, the sound of gunfire could be heard all about the town as guns were fired into the air. The sidewalks and road were busy with cowboys riding, fighting, drinking and just wandering about. He'd been in railhead towns less rough than this. This must be some of the railroad riff raff Nick had been concerned about. Looking closely, he could see that while many of the men were just cowhands looking to have a good time after a hard week of work, there were plenty of men who didn't look the cowboy part at all. 

He tied Gal outside the general store, still open for the cowboy's night off, and walked inside. He looked about the store while the clerk sold a cowboy a box of shells. Seeing the stack of shirts, he waited, not touching any of the merchandise, until the clerk walked over. 

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, you got a shirt to fit me?"

The clerk pulled three or four shirts from the pile. "I think these would all do you. What color you want?"

It hadn't occurred to him to ask for a color. He didn't think it really mattered and decided on something brown, to match the color his other two shirts were gradually acquiring. He added a bar of soap, an envelope and a stamp. Then he told the clerk to give him enough tobacco to make it fifty cents. The man tied up the shirt in brown paper along with the soap while he filled his tobacco bag from the jar. He took the letter he'd written to Miss Rachel and put the dollar bill inside the paper before inserting it in the envelope. He addressed the letter, put the stamp on and dropped it in the box on the counter for outgoing mail. 

He would have sent her more, but he needed to buy a side arm. Even saving back a dollar each week it would be a long time in the doing. He glanced at the used handguns on the back wall. Nothing there he would want any way and the cheapest was $11. He was going to be a while getting himself armed again. Sighing he thanked the clerk and took his bundle outside to where he'd tied Gal.

The new shirt was a beauty with little lines all through the fabric to make small checks. He was tying it to the back of his saddle when he noticed some sort of heightening of activity in the center of the main road not twenty feet from him. Three cowboys were trying to pull someone off a horse. 

He might not have paid too much attention had his eye not been caught by the sight of that little whippy thing rising up from the middle of the cowboys. Even then he couldn't really believe it, but walked closer to see if it could possibly be the girl was actually that stupid. Yup, the gnat brained gal was in the middle of the road in Stockton on a Saturday night trying to get herself… well, he knew what she was going to get herself but he doubted she knew. He wondered briefly if she was all right in the head. Sometimes children were born looking normal but weren't.

He came up behind the first cowboy with the man not noticing him and grabbed him by the back of his vest. Keeping one foot behind the man, he gave him a hard pull and tripped him down into the street. He ducked up underneath the neck of her horse and hit the cowboy holding the bridle with a good upper cut to the jaw that laid him out flat. He didn't even bother to go for the third man who had one arm up over his head to ward off the girl's whip while his other hand attempted to pull her from the saddle. 

He could already see the first man starting to get up from the road. He wouldn’t have time to take out the third man before he would be in a fight with all three. No way he was going to keep three cowboys from laying their hands all over that girl. She was laying it on with the little whip, hitting him, the other cowboy and the horse with equal ferocity now. He put both arms around her waist and pulled hard, nearly fell over backwards when she came out of the saddle in his arms. 

She was yelling at him now. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME. LET ME GO." With the sound of the music from the saloon across the way and the yelling and gunfire in the street, he was probably the only one in Stockton who could hear her and he just ignored the noise. Half carrying, half dragging, he moved her across the road and into the general store. He figured it was at least a public place and had a light. He hoped the three men would be somewhat deterred in their ambition by the public nature of the place.

Needless to say, the wildcat girl was madder than a wet hen. "Get away from me! Take your hands off me!" He could hear the edge of panic in her voice and knew she was scared.

He tried to reassure her as he dragged her across the road. "It’s okay, you know me …, from the grave." 

He deposited her inside the door of the store and turned to see if they were being followed. He didn't see anyone coming. Maybe it was going to be as simple as this?

"Oh." She had the good manners to at least stop trying to kill him with her little whip. "I would have been alright."

He looked at her as well as he could in the gloom, she was a few cards short of a full deck. "Are you crazy?" He couldn't believe her. Where had she been all her life to think the world was watching out for her this way? 

He just stood there for a minute, looking at her in amazement. Her shirt was half pulled off her shoulders, the sleeve of the shirt torn and her arm bleeding. Did she really get to do things like this and have them turn out with her all right? What must it be like to be able to ride through life knowing the world would take care of you?

He'd spent too much time trying to figure out how a Barkley thought and not enough time paying attention to how a Thomson needed to think. The three cowboys came through the general store doorway while he was looking at the girl and were on him even as he turned. 

"Out boy. This is work for men." The smallest of them outweighed him by forty pounds and in a slugging match, size mattered. Oh, he got in a few good blows. He'd been fighting with his fists pretty much on a weekly, if not a daily, basis since he was six years old. He knew how to throw a pretty good punch, how to duck as well as any man and better then most, and he knew how to take a licking. God knew he'd had plenty of practice taking a licking. 

He was no Barkley to think the rules of the world didn't apply to him. He knew he had a beating coming when he turned, caught the first blow on his forearm and threw his first punch into the man's gut. He tried as much as he could to stay on his feet and concentrated on ducking more than hitting. No way he was taking even one of these men out. He just had to try and stay alive and keep them punching until, he hoped, the gnat-brained girl managed to get out of harm's way.

It didn't take them very long, in spite of his best efforts, to get him down. Two good blows to his stomach and he was on the floor, nearly out of it entirely. He'd been shot before. He knew it took a deep wound like his a long time to heal inside. But it still surprised him how much it felt like he'd got shot all over again when that first fist drove into his stomach. The second fist to his stomach and he was down, gasping to breathe, the dark closing in on the sides of his vision. No more strength to him then his Aunt Hannah, just done in by two fists to the stomach. Man should be ashamed of his self.

He curled up on the floor, waiting for the boots to come, trying to protect his head and stomach. The boots always came if you let them get you to the ground. He'd learned that in his first fight. He'd learned then it was important, if you were going to fight, to take the other man out fast before his friends showed up and put you on the ground for the boots. Three to one though, he'd known this was a lost fight when he ran out to the horse. But what could a man do if his little sister was an idiot and looked like a cowboy's dream? 

He was surprised, when after two good kicks, the fight ended. Then when he managed to breathe again and looked to see the sheriff and two deputies pushing the assailants away, he decided this must be what it was to be a Barkley. You rode into town trying to get raped and a sheriff and two deputes, not to mention some stupid ditch digger, him in that role, all showed up to rescue you. No wonder the girl had no sense. Her whole life people must be falling all over themselves to rescue her.

One of the deputies grabbed him by his arm and hauled him to his feet. The sheriff was standing over Audra and giving her a stern look. "I'll let you explain to your family, Miss Barkley. They can explain to me." He almost smiled at that. The man thought he was making some impression on the girl. She just smiled at him and told him, "We're fine."

Who's the 'we' that's fine, he wondered? Surely she wasn't including him in that, him bent over almost double, standing upright only by the good graces of the deputy?

She came over to him now. All concerned and Lady Catherine for him. Worried that the loyal family retainer might have been injured defending her honor. He wondered who the idiot was when he told her, "I'm okay." And even gave her a small half smile. She looked worried for him, now that the damage was done. Still, that worried look was nice. Nice that she was worried about her brother.

******************

He was pleased to see his new shirt still there, lying on the ground beside Gal. The paper was a little torn from the horses dancing around when everyone ran into the general store for their big Saturday Night Fight. He couldn't see any damage to the shirt in the dim light from the store's outside lantern. He felt the package and made sure his soap was still in there. New shirt was no good if he couldn't keep it clean. Satisfied, he tied the package on the back of the saddle.

He half walked half staggered over to the water trough splashed some water on his head and picked up his hat out of the middle of the road. Looked like someone had ridden over it, but it was a good hat, a might dirtier than it had been, but no damage done that a good wetting and wearing wouldn't fix. He shaped it with his hand and put it back on his head. 

By that time, the sheriff had his crazy, yellow haired sister on her horse and the two were waiting for him. He pulled himself up on top of Gal like some seventy-year-old, crippled miner and kneed her over to the join the other two in the road. He was very glad he wasn't digging any irrigation ditch tomorrow. Good day to take Gal back over to that little river and spend time lying in the sun, resting his sore stomach. 

He followed the other two horses out of town and toward the ranch, lost in his thoughts, ignoring the conversation in front of him. He had saved his sister. He replayed the fight. Well, he had helped save his sister. No way he could have held off those three men much longer, but he'd held long enough. He wrapped his free arm around his stomach. He didn't like the way his middle was feeling.

He forced himself a might straighter in the saddle. She had been worried about him. That had felt very sweet. He glanced over at her and caught her looking at him again. He liked this sister thing even if it did mean taking a beating. Be nice if she had a little more sense and didn't try to get raped on Saturday night. But who's perfect?

"Well?" The sheriff had stopped his horse and was looking directly at him. He just stared back at the man while he tried to replay the conversation in his head. What had the man said?

"Well, you're new at the Barkleys', aren't you?”

He just looked at the man. What business of his was it how long he'd been at the ranch?

"He saw me ride out. He came after me." He looked at Audra with some surprise; was she defending him or herself? What was this about? Did the sheriff really get to ask Miss Barkley what she was doing in town the same way someone asked a bastard what he was doing in the general store?

"So you said, Miss." So they had been talking about him. He was puzzled he hadn’t overheard that. He must be more out of it from the beating than he thought to have missed his name being spoken. "What's your name?" Guess it hadn't been spoken. He kneed Gal forward ready to ride on, ignoring the sheriff's question. No point in talking to the sheriff.

"Heath," his sister said. He was surprised she remembered it.

"Heath what?" Yup, a real sheriff. Sheriff was looking at him, all suspicious now, like he'd robbed the bank. Next he would be going through wanted posters looking to arrest him for something. He'd never seen any profit in being noticed by guards, officers or the law. He got on fine keeping his head down and his mouth shut.

He looked up toward the north. He could see flames showing up brightly in the darkness not more then two, three miles away. Something big was on fire, a house or a barn, not a grass or woods fire. This was a man made wooden thing on fire. He'd seen plenty of houses burn in the war and knew the look of dried wood all piled in one place, burning.

"That's Swenson's place," and the sheriff was away. His sister followed the sheriff and he followed her. He wanted her home and safe. He wanted himself home and in bed. He wanted a good look at what was under that bandage around his middle. He tried feeling it again as his horse galloped after the other two. The bandage felt dry. He sure hoped it was.

There were perhaps twenty people either trying to put out the fire or just now riding up. The sheriff was off his horse and amidst the fire fighters in a moment. His sister, the beautiful Audra, threw him the reins of her horse and ran over to a carriage where an older woman sat and climbed in beside her. 

This must be Mrs. Barkley, he thought, the wife of his father, the mother of his brothers and sister. She was a tiny woman, which surprised him. Her sons were all such tall men he would have expected her to be bigger, but she was tiny, and straight, and he thought, beautiful. He realized she was returning his scrutiny and carefully moved Gal further back into the shadows where he could continue to observe her without her seeing him. So this was the woman his father loved, his real wife, the woman he married, the mother of his real children. 

He turned his head away. An older farmer was standing in the middle of the group ranting, mostly at his brothers. Talking of their father who had stood with these farmers against the railroad last year and been killed for his efforts.

He could hear his brother, Jarrod, explaining why it was necessary for the law to handle this matter. Why the Barkleys couldn't stand with these farmers against the railroad. He smiled slightly to himself at that. He looked at that poor farmer standing with the fire behind him and his hope residing with the Barkleys. Barkleys who just stood and looked back at the farmer, doing nothing.

He leaned down and gave the reins of his sister's horse to a man standing near him, asked him to hold the gelding for the Barkleys. Then he asked the man for directions to Sample's farm. His brothers might stand and watch the railroad destroy these men's lives but he would not. He would, once in his life, stand by his father's side; fight his father's fight. 

It took about half an hour riding to see the lights from Sample's house. He didn't ride in too close but headed back into the hills a short distance, looking for some water, suspecting the man wouldn't have built his house too far from some sort of water. Finding a small stream that ran off from Barkleys' bigger river, he unsaddled Gal and turned her out. He would spend the night here, afraid about sleeping in the bunkhouse after the fight in town anyway. Afraid that fight might remind his dream demons of other fights. Preferring this night to sleep alone and outside. 

He put his head on his saddle and laid as much of his body as he could on Gal's saddle blanket. Not having planned to sleep out, he'd left his bedroll and saddle bags in the bunkhouse, so no bedroll and no coffee in the morning. Wouldn't be the first time for either. 

He figured he wouldn't sleep much being so sore from the fight in town but he might as well lie his tired bones down for a while. He would have liked a fire so he could look under that bandage, but he figured with all those angry farmers riding home he'd just bring trouble down on himself if he lit a beacon.

He looked up at the stars and mourned the loss of his family. All his life he had dreamed of his family. When he would stand in Mr. Cronin's store waiting for the man to decide to see him, waiting while the women switched their skirts away from him, he used to play the Brother Game. He used to pretend his brother came in that door and told Mr. Cronin to wait on him. His brother would be angry with Mr. Cronin for making him wait and Mr. Cronin would be afraid of his big brother. He used to think on the Brother Game the whole time he waited in that store.

When Danny Fowler and his two brothers would catch him, which they did several times a week in spite of his constant vigilance, he used to pretend that his big brother would come up behind Danny Fowler and haul him off and beat the snot out of him. Beat Danny Fowler until that boy was screaming and crying for his mother.

Some times when he was running out of the mine as fast as he could after setting a charge and he would slip and fall in the dark, he would pretend that his brother was there, helping him run. Taking his arm, helping him over the rough spots, telling him to hurry, making sure he got clear before the powder blew. The Brother Game had always been the best game, his big brother looking out for him, making sure no one could sneak up behind him, watching his back. He'd still been playing the Brother Game in the war. When it would get real bad, he would tell himself not to worry, his brother would come if it got too awful. So no brother meant things weren't really so desperate, not so bad he couldn't handle it alone. ‘Cause if it got to be too much for him alone, why surely his brother would come. 

That moment in line, waiting to be paid, had felt like the Brother Game only true. His big brother had stood for him. Told Barrett to be gone. His brother had watched out for him, saved him from a beating. Just like Jarrod had spoken up for him on the porch to get him the job. Nick had taken his part. Those had been such fine moments, moments he meant to save and replay in his head later so he could remember his family, just as he would replay Audra's asking him if he was okay after the fight. He would leave, but he would know what it was to have two big brothers and a beautiful sister.

Then at Swenson's farm when they had not stood with the farmers, he felt he lost that. His brothers weren't the men he thought they were. They weren't the sort of men after all who would stand with the little farmers against the railroad, or with little brothers against the world. He wished now he hadn't come. That he hadn't looked at the real brothers. His brothers were not the men to protect him from the danger and evil in the world. A feeling of great sadness and futility weighed on him, not helped by the pain in his gut or his aching body. 

He misjudged how much the fight and the pain had worn him out. He didn't wake until Gal stuck her nose in his ear and gave a good blow, looking for oats he didn't have. He looked up at the sky and judged it to be after 7:00. He'd missed the best part of the morning and if he didn't hurry, would miss his chance to get himself killed. 

He quickly saddled Gal and checked the load in his rifle. He'd cleaned the rifle Friday night and knew it was loaded, but checking his weapon was something he'd learned early. A man couldn't check his weapon too often when his life depended upon its perfect function. 

Before he mounted, he removed his shirt and unwound the bandage around his middle, now he finally had light to see the damage. The last of the bandage was stuck firm by dried blood. He poured a little water on the bandage from his canteen. Once it was wet, he was able to loosen it and see the wound. 

Not too bad, he decided. The inside edge of the wound had opened up again and done some bleeding, but not too much. He tried pushing on the area around the open part. It was sore but nothing he couldn't handle. Blood came out when he pushed that was okay, the pus that came out not so good. The newly opened place looked pretty deep. He didn't like that and wished he had a clean bandage to put on it, but along with his bedroll it was back in the bunkhouse. He rinsed the bloody place with the water in his canteen, then he rewrapped the old bandage and put the cleanest part of it against the wound. It would keep until after the fight. Could be he'd be dead in an hour and wouldn't need to worry on old stomach wounds.

As he rode in toward the farm, he looked at all of the places he would have positioned himself if he was still a sharpshooter, roof of the barn, trees on the hill, even in the low spot adjacent to the house. Not so good as higher ground but better than the front porch where all of the farmers seemed to be standing. He dismounted behind the house and gave Gal a strong swat on her rear to send her away. He would stand in the line for this fight. He would not take the sharpshooter's part. He no longer had to do that, sit in wait, play the murderer.

He was amazed when he walked around the house to see his brothers there, his two big brothers, standing with the farmers. He felt he had been given the gift of his brothers back. He smiled. He almost laughed he was so happy. 

***********

He studied the men he was to fight with. Most of them were farmers armed with Springfields and Spencers, although he saw the odd shotgun and smoothbore among them, a few with side arms and no rifles. Once the fear and movement and dust got going, he thought most would be lucky to hit a horse let alone a rider. 

The railroad men had already arrived. He saw the three from the fight in the general store off to the right; one of them smiled at him, touched the brim of his hat at him making the motion of a gun with his fingers, making it personal. The railroad riders mostly wore side arms. Mounted, shooting side arms, these men too would be lucky to do much damage. Oh, men would die here today but this was no Chickamauga, unless it was allowed to go on long enough for the able shooters on both sides to do serious harm. He figured it would be his job to make sure that didn't happen.

He saw Sample standing in the front of the men. He was vaguely aware of Nick telling some sort of humorous story beside him. What concerned him was Jarrod, Jarrod walking out with Sample, Jarrod talking to the sheriff. Jarrod was standing out there with Sample. Standing in the front the way officers stood. Everyone knew the first thing to do in a fight was kill the officers. Had he been fighting for the railroad, the first one he would kill was Sample and then Jarrod. He would need to fight for Jarrod. Nick was too far to his right, off Jarrod's sight line, he wouldn't know who was aiming at his brother. He figured Nick was there to kill railroad men, not defend his brother.

He could make this mark on his family before he left. He knew he could never be a part of this family, but he could do this thing for these brothers, so later when he remembered Jarrod speaking for him in front of the house and Nick defending him from Barrett, he would know he had done this thing for them. He had saved his sister and he could save his brothers. He could save Jarrod from the bullet meant for an officer out in front of the line and he could save Nick the guilt of not protecting his brother. He, Heath, could do this thing for his family.

The sheriff was giving his ultimatum and he looked over the men in front of him, picking his targets, choosing the men he would shoot by who was looking at Jarrod. He would like to have saved Sample as well, but he knew he couldn't save them both. He would have to save Jarrod and hope Sample had someone watching out for him as well.

Jarrod spoke his lawyer line, telling them to wait for the courthouse to open and the shooting began. He shot the two men closest to Jarrod first, hitting them each in the left shoulder, not wanting to kill anyone if he could avoid it. Then he shot his assailant from last night, knowing he could do Jarrod no good if he was dead, and since the man had made it personal, he knew he needed to get him gone. 

Three down and someone was riding directly at Jarrod, gun blazing, trying to shoot from a moving horse with a handgun. He shot him in the shoulder; the man was an idiot but even an idiot, given enough ammunition, could get lucky. The next shot went for a man who had dismounted and was using his rifle kneeling, clearly not a fool and he now with only two shots left. One went for the man who had killed Sample and was now shooting at Jarrod. He had fired at Jarrod twice already but with the man's horse spinning, this was the first clear shot he'd had at him. His last shell took out the man who actually shot Jarrod. Having no time for a wounding shot he had to kill the man. He didn't think the man had even been aiming at Jarrod, been aiming at anything. Just bad luck that he'd hit his brother and had then died from the last round in his rifle.

He dropped the empty rifle, jumped down off the porch and grabbed the back of Jarrod's vest with his right hand and yanked him back behind a barrel. As he yanked him back, he grabbed Jarrod's handgun from the ground where he had dropped it when he was hit and shot another man who had dismounted and was actually aiming at them. 

The pistol was a beautiful piece of workmanship. The barrel came up no more then a fraction of an inch when he fired. It was so perfectly balanced that once it was discharged, the weight of the barrel pulled the gun right back down to the point of aim. Must be one of those fancy English pistols, he decided. Maybe it could core an apple, falling from a tree, in a hurricane, but he thought, doing it at a half mile he'd for sure want a rifle. 

He shot another man who was attempting to dismount and then it was over. The railroad men were leaving, quirting and spurring their horses and gone from the yard in a moment. A few of the farmers fired at their retreating backs, but he'd been in too many retreats to fire on a man's back for no good cause.

He set Jarrod's handgun on the barrel in front of the porch and went and picked up his rifle. He walked across toward the barn to a pile of wooden crates and sat down. After reloading his rifle with the shells he had stashed in his pocket earlier, he pulled out his makings. 

He should have shot the man riding at Jarrod before he shot the man on the spinning horse. Unlikely that spinning man could have hit anything the way his horse was acting. He'd almost killed his brother. He watched the men they'd shot to make sure none of them were going to keep fighting after the battle was lost. 

His hands were shaking too much to roll the quirley. His misjudgment had almost killed his beautiful lawyer brother. He'd never have any education. He'd never argue cases in court, save some innocent man's life with his clever words. But his brother could do those powerful things. His skill was with a rifle and a horse. His chance to do something fine had been to use his rifle, keep his brother alive and he had almost failed. Misjudged who to shoot. He stopped with the quirley, didn't want it anyway and sure wasn't going to get it made with his hands shaking.

Suddenly, right in his line of vision was a cigar. He looked up to meet his brother's blue eyes and a small smile. He dropped the unsuccessful quirley on the ground, took the proffered cigar and gave Jarrod a small half smile back, pleased to see him apparently only winged. Nodding his thanks, he watched him walk back over and join Nick. Then smiling to himself, he walked to the back of the house to call Gal. He didn't really like cigars, a bit too strong for his taste but this one he would savor.

Riding back toward the ranch, he tried to work out what to do. It was Sunday. No ditch digging today. As he forced himself to sit up straight in the saddle, against the pain in his stomach that wanted him hunched over, he feared there would be no work tomorrow either. He thought his time at the Barkleys was about done. He would stay tonight; see if he could work in the morning. For now it was a beautiful day and a Sunday, the best day of the week.

He surely loved a good Sunday. Used to be he and Mama went to church on Sundays. He hadn't gone to church since he left Strawberry nine years ago. Mama kept a special dress for church and tried to keep a good shirt for him to wear. But he grew so fast that some Sundays he had to wear that grey shirt from the mine. Washed and pressed to look as good as possible, but still dyed with the color of the earth he worked in, the dirt that could never be wholly washed out of his skin or his clothes. 

The two of them would sit in the back of the church, careful to arrive with the last and leave with the first, careful not to call the attention of the minister or the parishioners down on their sinful heads. He'd sit in the back of the church and listen to the minister preach the evils of adultery and fornication and watch him point his finger at them. For a long while, he hadn't been able to figure out why being an adult was evil but he'd gotten it in the end. He knew it had to do with him having no father. Took him a while to figure out what was wrong, why he and Mama were among those cast out. But he'd figured it out. Once he left Strawberry, he could never find a reason to go to church again. 

He loved his Lord but he had a harder time loving his enemies and praying for those who persecuted him. His mama had always said that was the true test of his Christianity, his ability to forgive and love. He surely did try, but he guessed he knew he purely didn't have the Christian spirit his mother had. He didn't want to go praying where he had to sit in the back of the church because his father didn't care enough to see he had a seat anywhere else. So on this Sunday, he would lay his tired stomach down by that river and have him a day of rest. 

He spent most of the day sleeping. He knew he was running a fever now and tried again to clean the wound but just couldn't get it to the point when it wasn't oozing some puss along with the blood. He leaned back against his saddle and sighed tiredly. He was going to need a doctor for that hole and a dollar wasn't going to buy much doctoring. The fever wasn't going to get any better with the wound seeping. The fever made it hard for him to think, but he decided he'd best head back into the hills again, see if he could wait the infection out. He knew he should be hungry, hadn't eaten anything since noon the previous day, but like all good fevers the first thing it took was his hunger.

Around 6:00, he knew he had to move or spend the night by the stream in fever dreams. He'd go back to the ranch, get his gear from the bunkhouse and then head back east toward the mountains. At least the high country would be warmer than the last time he was up there.

It was a struggle hauling himself out of the nest he'd made of his saddle and blanket but he got it done. Got good old Gal saddled and headed back toward the ranch. He spent the trip back thinking on his family. He was glad he had come to look. He had true memories of his brothers and sister now to take away. Perhaps they weren't as heroic as his childhood imaginings, but they had a reality that he thought would last him a good while. 

It was coming up to dusk when he rode through the ranch yard and out back to the bunkhouse. Most of the hands were sitting on the porch, enjoying the last of their day off, smoking and yarning, their hands busy mending gear and clothes for the next week's work. Heath nodded generally to the group and went inside for his saddlebags and bedroll. Coming back out, he wasn't surprised to be braced by Barrett.

"So pulling out. Can't take a little hard work?" It wasn't so much what Barrett said, he thought, it was the sneer, the strut, the standing too close when he spoke that rubbed a man wrong.

"Yup," he agreed. No reason to fight with the man now he was going. He stepped around him headed toward his horse only to have Barrett step in front of him again his face a bare five inches away.

*****************

"What's wrong with you, boy, you some kind of coward? What's a man got to say get a rise from you?" Barrett was leaning right in on that one.

He just shrugged and stepped around the man again. Ignoring him at his back, hoping he wouldn't start something tonight, too tired and sick to care what the man said to him. He heard him make some sort of comment about cowards. Since his voice was dropping further behind him, he let it go, tied his gear on Gal and led her away toward the main corral behind the big house.

He stood beside her while she drank her fill and studied the house. The windows were golden with the lamp light inside. He could see the shadows passing in front of the windows, of the family that might have been. He shook his head at his fantasy and had turned to mount Gal when he saw Nick walking across the yard toward him.

"All right, let’s hear it," he said coming up into his face.

He just looked at Nick and for a wonderful moment he thought that perhaps Nick had recognized some kinship in him. But then he realized that Nick was furious and that the anger was directed at him.

"Well, you just name the tune and I'll try to hum it." He tried giving him a small smile to recapture some of that easy banter from the bridge a week ago, on that ride home from the ditch Saturday.

"Corning."

"Nice town." There was to be no banter tonight. He could feel the anger rolling off Nick in a wave he could almost see.

"Last place you worked?"

"That's right."

"That's a hundred miles from here."

"So?"

"I saw you shooting today. When that fight ended, there were fifteen of those railroad guns down, by my count you put eight of them there."

He knew where this was going now. He turned away from him toward Gal.

He felt Nick's hand on him but didn't even have time to put up his arm in defense before his brother had spun him around and let fly with a hard left punch to his midriff. The blow would have laid him on the ground had Nick not maintained his hold on his arm, pushing him back against Gal to hit him yet again.

"You're no more a cowhand than a Modoc. Let's hear it, boy—the truth. What are you doing here?"

He made an attempt to hit out at the bigger man but could hardly raise his arm, the dark closing in on his vision.

"Who sent you here, boy?"

"No man… sends me anywhere." The bravado would have sounded better had he been able to get it all out without stopping to struggle for a breath, if he hadn't been hanging from the other man's hand without the strength to stand. 

Nick hit him again and he felt himself falling, his body falling to the ground, his awareness falling through a blackness of space. He felt tears in his eyes; his brother shouldn't to be doing this to him. His brother shouldn't be hurting him like this. Brothers didn't do this to each other.

When he was aware again, it was of someone half dragging, half carrying him, the pull on the wound such that he couldn't stop a small sound of pain from escaping. Then he knew it was Nick dragging him up the steps of the big house and into the bright light of a foyer as grand as that big hotel in San Francisco. Even hurting as he was and unable to pull his legs under himself, he could marvel at the sight.

"JARROD." Such a yelling in his ear. "JARROD GET DOWN HERE." Nick dragged him into another room and set him, not ungently, on the floor. "JARROD."

He pulled himself to his feet using a small table for leverage. He had to get out of there before it was all ruined. His lawyer brother came into the room, his arm in a sling from the morning's fight. "Nick, What in the name…"

He could see no means of escape except the door he came by. Bent almost double at the waist, his arm wrapped around his middle, he struggled toward the door. When Nick made a grab at him, he snatched one of the whiskey bottles on the little table, broke the end off and threatened them with it as he tried to back out the door.

"I've had me a day…" He had so much he wanted to say to these men but no breath to say it. The room was tilting around him. Had he not had his back to the wall, he would have been on the floor. He had to get out.

"Oh, well, now that's all…" Nick took a step toward him.

"Nick, what's going on here?" Jarrod demanded

"He was leaving. I asked him about this morning. Who he was? You saw him shooting."

He tried to edge further out of the room without turning his back on them. He was half out the door when he looked up the stairs and saw the two women. His eyes met hers and he feared it was too late from the look of horror on her face. Perhaps it was for the broken bottle; he dropped it to the floor behind his boots and turned his head away in the direction of that big front door. He took another half step in that direction and was brought up short by a hand on his arm. He tried to pull away, to wrap his arms about his middle more firmly, to ready himself for another blow.

"I asked him. He wouldn't answer. I got angry." Nick sounded strangely uncertain, but there was no uncertainty in that grip on his arm. He tried to move away and realized the hand was holding him up as much as it was stopping him. He felt his knees beginning to fold. "I think I did something awful to him, Jarrod. I hit him and there was blood all over the place."

He was falling again. Losing himself in the whimsy of his fever, he thought he could hear his sister's voice say, "He saved me in town last night."

"YOU, IN TOWN LAST NIGHT…" His last thought as he fell was one of pleasure that at least one of his gnat brained sister's brothers knew she was an idiot.

"Hey, boy." Someone was wiping his face with a wet towel. He opened his eyes. It was Nick. His brother was helping him. He gave him a half smile. The other, the hitting, it had been a mistake.

"Oh, Nick, get out of the way. What have you done?" Mrs. Barkley pushed Nick to one side and came into his line of sight.

Oh no. He had to get out of there. He couldn't be there. He tried to roll away from her. He tried to get his legs to bend, to get his feet under him. He had to go now. 

"Jarrod, lay him down here." The world tilted again and he was falling back, but slowly, the ceiling over his head spinning a slow arc. Hands were trying to pull his arms away from his stomach but he held on fast, holding the pain close. 

"Let go, boy. Let us get a look here." Jarrod's voice was soft and kind as he fought with him to uncover his stomach, but he held fast.

"I'm fine. Let me go." He was too close he needed to get out. He loved that he had memories of these people to take with him. But they were his memories. He couldn't get this close. He couldn't get in their lives, in their house. He didn't belong here on the inside he needed to get out, out to the edge of their lives.

"Don't fight, boy, we're trying to help you." That kind voice must be hers. He wouldn't open his eyes. He wouldn't meet her look. He had done her such a wrong, being born, coming here, being in her house. He couldn't look at her. 

"Let me go," he begged. Men had beaten him unconscious and he wouldn't give them a word, but he would beg for this woman he had wronged so awfully. "Please, let me go."

"No one’s going to hurt you. We just need to see what little brother has done to you here."

He could feel tears in his eyes; tears born of his fever and pain and of this kindness of brothers, tears for might have been brothers, dreamed of brothers. "Let me go."

Fingers on his buttons opening his shirt, her hands on his arms, "Move your arms, child, I need to look." He could not disobey this woman with her kind words and allowed her to move his arms away from his stomach, allowed her to open his shirt.

"Oh, Nick, I don't think you did this. This is an old wound. I think he was shot. But if you punched him there…" He put his fingers over the hole in spite of her hand on his wrist. He could feel the blood seeping between them, all that healing gone and fever to boot and him here. He'd made such a mess of this. He just had to get away from here.

"We need to help him, Mother. He helped me last night. I was afraid and then he was there and those men beat him up. If he hadn't been there…" He could hear the tears in her voice, tears for him he wondered? "Please, Pappy, please help him."

"Mother?"

He opened his eyes and met those of the woman bending over him, her hand still on his wrist. He had never meant this to happen. He was just going to look, maybe speak to the brothers, but never this. "Please, let me go." He wouldn't beg these brothers for anything, but maybe this woman would let him go. She would not want him here any more than he wanted to be here, in this place he was never meant to be, this place of real family and real brothers.

"I can't," she said to him. "I can't let you go."

He was so afraid she knew then. That by some miracle of wife knowledge she knew. That she had read the wrongness in him and knew what he was.

*****************************

"Audra, send Ciego for Howard. Nick, Jarrod, carry him upstairs to a guest room." The softness in her voice when she spoke to him was gone. This was an iron woman, strong, capable of anything.

"MOTHER! The bunkhouse surely?" Nick would save him. Nick would get him out of this house. Nick wouldn't want him here.

"You may not have shot him, Nick, but you bear some of the responsibility for this." There was an icy tone he never wanted to hear directed at him. He had done this already. He had turned this woman to anger and she had turned it on her son. How much anger would there be if they all realized?

Then there were arms and hands and movement. The room spun crazily as if they were spinning him in circles instead of carrying him up the stairs. The pain and the spinning room and he feared he would be sick. Oh, please not that, not sick on this beautiful rug, in front of these beautiful people, not throwing up all down his front. He fought the pain and bile in his throat until they had him up the stairs. They laid him in a bed. It was so soft. It smelled of lavender like a high meadow in summer. 

"Get his boots off and his shirt and pants." She was a general in the field. But that was as far as he would go with her.

"Leave me be." He pushed against the hands fighting now in earnest. This last humiliation they would not have.

"LIE STILL, BOY."

He fought harder. "Leave me be."

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Listen, you need to get in this bed and wait for the doctor. You aren't getting in that clean bed in those filthy clothes." She was trying to reason with him. At least the hands had stopped at his belt and his shirt.

"Not filthy…" He'd washed them yesterday. He tried to remember how bad his shirt looked but had no idea what he was wearing. Probably looked bad after Nick knocking him around the yard. But he was not taking it off here. He was not baring his body to these people. "Leave my clothes be."

"Nick, take his boots off and leave him be for now."

"Mother, wait out in the hall. Let me see what I can do." Jarrod, the lawyer, going to reason with him. He heard her sigh with exasperation. He had heard that same sound from his mama enough times to know that her mouth was drawn down and her eyes were glaring at him. Didn't even need to look to know that ‘woman angry at a man she can't buffalo' look. He heard the door close and the lawyer started in on him.

"I know she can come on to a man, without concern for his dignity." Jarrod was sitting on the side of the bed now. Heath opened his eyes and saw nothing but kindness there. He just couldn't meet him part way on this, he just couldn't.

"Let me help you off with those pants. You'll be a lot more comfortable and keep these sheets a lot cleaner." Heath felt those nasty tears threaten again. It would be so easy to be undone by their kindness. To just give in and let them do for him. But he couldn't. He had to hold something for himself. Something away from these people who were digging their way into his dreams without realizing it.

"Leave it," he said and returned the lawyer's stare with one of his own.

"OH, FOR GOODNESS' SAKE." No lawyer voice of reason from Nick. He almost smiled; this was the brother from the Brother Game. This was the tone a big brother would take, bullying a little brother to his face and watching out for him with all others. But this was not the Brother Game. That was a game he played by himself, not with these Barkleys, not with this for true brothers who must never know.

"Just rest here. The doctor will be here shortly and he'll sew that hole back up for you." So much kindness from Jarrod was undoing him. He turned his mind to the pain. Let the pain keep him company and not this kindly brother. He closed his eyes on the apparition of brothers and focused on the reality of pain, his old friend. He didn't understand about the kindness of these people but he knew all about pain. Pain he could understand just fine.

"What happened, Nick?" He felt the bed move as Jarrod stood up.

"You know what happened. You saw him shooting this morning at Sample's. I just wanted to know who he was. What he was doing here." Nick turned away from the bed and paced across the room, his voice moving away. "No one shoots like that except a lawman or an outlaw. No lawman would be digging irrigation ditches for fifty cents a day." He let Nick's words roll over him, not trying to understand what they were saying. Just listening to the sound of their voices, the feeling of their being there.

"Didn't it ever occur to you that an outlaw wouldn't be fighting the railroad at Sample's?" 

"Yeah, that's why I wanted to know what was going on with him."

He let the pain take him away down a tunnel into a sweet darkness of clean sheets and soft beds.

A hand on his shoulder woke him back to his pain. "Well, young man, I'm Dr. Merar. I'm just going to take a look at this stomach of yours." 

He studied the man sitting on the edge of the bed looking back at him. The lamp at the head of his bed gave enough light to reveal the older man; he looked like a doctor should. He had kind eyes and he was looking directly at him as he spoke. He nodded his permission and moved his hand away from the still seeping wound.

"I need to take off your shirt. Can you let me do that?" The man was wiping away at the wound with a cool cloth, very gently. He turned his head and he could see Mrs. Barkley standing beside the doctor a basin of water in her hands.

He looked back at the doctor and shook his head 'no.' The doctor followed his look to Mrs. Barkley and smiled slightly.

"Victoria, could you just leave the basin for us, please?"

"Oh, for heavens sake. I have two grown sons. There is nothing under that shirt I haven't seen a thousand times."

He glanced up at her anxiously. He didn't want this woman angry with him over a shirt, but he couldn't take it off with her in the room. It was almost all the pride he had left. He couldn't meet her eyes and glanced away quickly, casting his eyes down. So ashamed he had to ask this of her, but sure she hadn't seen what was under this shirt a thousand times. Sure if he had his way she would never see it.

"All right, Howard, but get those filthy pants off him at the same time please. I don't want to be doing this again." She was a real lady. She didn't allow her annoyance to show by more than a hint in her voice and she shut the door quietly as she left.

"Thanks," he said to the doctor.

"No problem, son. I'm going to take this sleeve off and then let you roll a bit and we'll get the other one off." The doctor's aid was kind and efficient and the shirt was off in an instant. He tensed as he felt the doctor's hand on his back, moving the shirt under him but the man's face never changed expression and he said nothing to him about what he had to feel. 

"Let me help get those pants off too, that way I can get a good bandage on over that hole in you." This also was done with minimum fuss. The doctor kindly drew the sheet most of the way up to his waist before returning with his rag to the wound.

"I didn't want her to see…" He wasn't sure if he could explain the shame to this man. 

"I understand. It’s your body, son, you don't have to show it to anyone you don't want to."

He couldn't think of anything to say to this absurdity. It reminded him of the kindness he had received in Pinecrest. He guessed California must have the best doctors in the world. 

Or maybe if you paid for the doctoring, it was different than if you got it free from the army. Maybe when you got doctoring from the army they just naturally already owned your body. Could tell you to march here or march there, die here, kill there and when the doctors got a hold of you, they could just do whatever they wanted to you. He guessed that must be it. But this line of thought reminded him he didn't have any money to pay this kind man who had come all this way to sew up this hole. Then the doctor pressed on his broken ribs and he forgot all about kind doctors and paying them.

"You have two broken ribs there as well as some major bruising. This wound is infected and is going to need to be drained and left open for a couple of days to clean out." The doctor wiped the moisture off Heath's face with a cool rag while he waited for him to get his breath back from the rib pressing.

"Doctor, I'm sorry… I got one dollar to my name… nothing I can sell… my horse and saddle."

"Well, young fellow, let's get you mended. We can worry about your bills then." The doctor gave a kind squeeze to his shoulder. "I'm going to need Mrs. Barkley back in here to help me with opening this wound and draining it."

He turned his head away. He didn't know if he could bear this shame.

"Wounds on your stomach. I suspect that's the part she'll be helping me with."

He looked up at the kind face and nodded his thanks. He didn't think anyone had been this kind to him since Mr. Finch at the livery had taught him to ride; he had never looked for a man to be so kind, and him not even able to pay his bill. What could he say to this man?

"This is going to hurt. I can bring Nick or Jarrod in to help hold you down, or can you lay still through it?"

"Reckon I'm alright."

"I want you to swallow this. It will help with the pain."

He knew the taste of the laudanum. He'd practically lived on it for a few months back in the hospital. The drink of water after did little to dull the bitterness but he knew it would do for his pain and the taste was eased by its familiarity.

"Okay then. You just stay there. I'll go get my instruments clean, get a little help and be back." The doctor pulled the sheet and blanket up to his neck and gave him another of his kind smiles. "These are good folks. They wouldn't mind about your back."

"I would," he told him, turning his head away from the kindness. He heard the door close and shut his eyes, breathing with the pain, feeling that hot poker in his side moving each time he took a breath, wondering that the pain could feel so fresh after three weeks of healing. 

***********************  
Jarrod poured himself a glass of whiskey and turned to his mother. "Sherry?"

"Yes, thank you." She took the proffered glass and sat holding it and looking into the fire.

"A penny?" Jarrod said as he sat down beside her on the settee and took her free hand in his. "You've been a thousand miles away ever since Howard left. Is it the cowboy upstairs?"

She smiled at her oldest son's perception and squeezed his hand but kept her eyes on the fire.

"Did he say something to upset you?"

"No. No, not that. He's just a boy, a sick boy at the moment. There was a lot of infection in that wound. Did you know Nick had him digging irrigation ditches all week with that hole in him?"

"Nick had no way of knowing. He sure is modest." Jarrod sipped the whiskey and smiled wryly at his mother.

"I'm not sure that was it. He was fine when I went in to help Howard. I gave his clothes to Silas to go in the washing."

Jarrod looked at her strangely. It wasn't like his mother to talk to him about daily domestic occurrences of this nature. He wondered if this was a cause or a symptom of her distraction. Now that he had her talking, he waited to see where she was headed with this line of conversation.

"I emptied his pockets."

Jarrod saw now that she was holding something in her other hand, her fingers playing with a thin silver chain.

"The first time I saw him. I think I knew… I just couldn't…" She was silent again, her eyes having never left the fire. "What do you know about him? Where is he from?"

"Nothing, Mother, just another drifter. Came in looking for work and when he’s able he appears eager to drift out again."

"Yet, he's been here a week and he's already probably saved your life and Audra's." Now she looked directly at him, her eyebrows raised in question.

"Yes." Now it was Jarrod's turn to look thoughtful. "I believe he did, if not save my life, he certainly saved me from being more seriously injured than I was."

"Why? Why would he allow three men to beat him to save Audra? Why was he at Sample's at all, let alone, as Nick said, covering you the whole fight?" Her fingers continued to caress the chain in her hand. 

They were both silent, thinking about the events of the past day and night. Audra's tearful confession when they had gotten home last night, this morning's fight at Sample's and now this evening’s fight in the sitting room.

"Do you remember when your father went to Strawberry? When he was gone for those months and came home so changed?" Now she was looking at Jarrod and it was his turn to look into the fire and remember.

He had never forgotten that time. The months when his father was just gone and no one knew where he was and his mother wouldn't say. The ranch hadn't been anything like the huge concern it now was, but it had been big enough. McCall had taken care of the ranch. And his mother… His mother had mourned the death of a baby and the disappearance of her husband. It had been an awful time for him. His world coming apart, his father gone, his mother there but somehow not. 

It had been he and Nick. He thought now that was when they had found a closeness that had transcended the fighting of young boys. It was the beginning of the closeness of two brothers who could always count on each other.

"I remember." He remembered again the joy of that homecoming, the euphoria of his father's return. Their father had returned but it had been a long time before all was as it had been. There had been a coldness in their home that had never been present before. He had been wrapped up in his own adolescence and had missed some of the tension, but no one could miss all of it, not even a twelve-year old boy trying to find manhood. "It was a hard time."

"Yes. It was. We very nearly didn't come through it as a family. I almost returned home back east. But I couldn't, we had you and Nick. We had to find a way to come together again." She took Jarrod's hand in hers and smiled at him. "You and Nick saved us. Reminded us that we had a family and that we had love."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"While your father was gone, he met a woman." She turned away again to the fire. "They lived together for a time."

Jarrod said nothing, didn't know if he could say anything. He'd always viewed his parents as two parts of the same entity. They were his parents. He knew on an intellectual level that they must have had lives beyond their marriage, a time when they weren't married even, but he had never considered it.

"We were going through a hard time with the ranch and then the baby died. It all seemed to fall apart. I was angry with God I think now, for taking my baby. But your father was closer than God and he bore the brunt of my anger. That's why he was away. Looking at mining properties, but also just being away from me and my anger." She squeezed his hand and smiled at him reassuringly. "We're just human too, Jarrod, things happen. People marry and then they change."

"I just never thought. I never knew why he went away. You said to look at mines. I never wondered why he was gone so long." Jarrod wondered now at his youthful self-absorption that allowed a parent to disappear for months and him never to really wonder at it.

"He told me about her when he came home. Told me what happened. Oh, I was angry, hurt and… remorseful. I had told him to go, to leave me alone, and he went. It took us a long time to work through that anger, but we did. I think our love was stronger for our having stopped to look at it and deciding to go on together." She turned Jarrod's hand over and dropped the silver chain into it. At the end of the chain was a round disk.

"I just never thought whose life that time might have affected besides your father and I and you two children. We found our love again. We remembered why we married, why we came to California. Tom promised to never see the woman again and we went on for another twenty years," Jarrod could see tears in her eyes now. "Audra was born and we were so happy. The Strawberry mine returned a huge profit. It was as if that time remade our lives. We didn't consider who else's life that time might have made."

Jarrod looked down at the disk and chain in his hand and his breath caught in his throat. "My God."

"You remember it then?" She touched the disk with the tip of one finger where it lay in Jarrod's open hand.

"It's Father’s Portuguese Real." He turned it over. "There's the T on the back surface." His throat suddenly dry, he asked, "Where did you find it?" He feared that he knew the answer to that question already. He thought he now understood this whole conversation about laundry and missing husbands, but he needed to hear it all, to keep his witness talking while he worked his way back through the entire testimony.

"It was in the pocket of the boy's pants. The pocket of that young man with the blue eyes and the blond hair who looks to be about twenty years old and has appointed himself guardian of the children of Tom Barkley." The look she gave him now was a challenge, her chin tipped up her eyes looking directly into his.

Jarrod stood up, walked back over to the liquor table and then saw that he hadn't yet touched his drink. He set the glass down and walked over to the big French doors, open into his mother's garden at the back of the house. He stood in the cool evening air, looking out toward the corrals, seeing nothing, unable to think, his breath caught in his throat at what his mother was saying. How could she even be thinking such a thing?

"That's a very big leap," he said finally, "from Father's coin to Father's…" He couldn't say the word. "The boy could have found it, been given it by someone. I don't know, so many ways he could have come by it."

"Have you looked at him, Jarrod? I mean really looked at that boy?" There was a tone of anger now in his mother's voice. He knew there had to be anger in there somewhere, how not, anger at something, to be even thinking this, and if true, how much more anger?

Jarrod looked at the boy again in his mind, the blue-eyes, the half smile, that sardonic sense of humor, the way he had leaned forward on the horse looking at them that afternoon on the porch. Oh, God. It just wasn't possible.

"Do you know the woman's name?" he asked.

"No. We spoke of it only once and then in no great detail. He just said he had met a woman but realized his place was here, with his children, his family. That he loved us too much to leave and that he was sorry that he had even thought of it. I didn't really want to hear even that amount." Now it was Victoria's turn to rise and walk to the window, taking Jarrod's arm in hers, needing to feel his forgiveness as a physical thing. "I was a coward. I never asked for more. Never asked what he knew of the woman. How he left things with her. I never dreamed…"

The room was silent, both lost in their own thoughts, studying the ranch out the window, their legacy from the man who might have left them even more than they had thought.

"You knew your father. He would never have left a child if he had known." She could say this with total conviction. She had known Tom Barkley almost all of her adult life. He would not have abandoned a woman and child in some mining town. "Perhaps, I'm wrong. He would never have just left her with a child."

"If he knew. Did he ever go back?"

"I don't think so. He promised he never would. I believed him. But I never would have thought in the first place… I don't think so." She sounded so. "I don’t know, Jarrod. I don’t know what to do." 

Jarrod smiled at her. He loved this woman very much. He loved her because she was his mother, but he thought he would have loved her in any case. She was so strong and sure in her beliefs, and so compassionate toward those who couldn't quite live up to her ideals. He didn't think he had ever met a woman who could stand in her home and discuss her husband's possibly bastard son with such composure. "I do know if that's your father's son up there, we need to some how make things right with him."

"Yes, or a drifter with a lucky coin he found in some mining camp, or worse yet, some con man trying to worm his way into one of the richest families in California." He ached for her pain and uncertainty. "We need to know more."

"We need to do right by that boy up there." This tone of certainty Jarrod recognized. This was the compass of confidence and moral certainty that had set his course in life. "Someone needs to go to Strawberry. Find out if there is anything we can learn there." Yes, this was the mother who always knew what to do.

"Yes, of course, I don't even know where this boy is from. He’s maybe from somewhere else entirely." Jarrod temporized, fearing a trip to Strawberry would mean nothing.

"It started in Strawberry. If he's not from there… ask there. If he's not from there, we'll have to think on it again. I can't ask Nick to do this, Jarrod. I'm sorry. It's going to have to be you."

Jarrod nodded and gave his mother's hand a small squeeze where he held it, her arm through his. "I'll go in the morning… I don’t think he's a con man. He was awfully anxious to get away from here." Much as he hated to say that, he had been raised by this woman and could be no more than honest with her and himself. "Are you going to tell Nick?"

"I have nothing to tell but imaginings and wonderings. Go to Strawberry. See if you can tell me something for sure. If he's not from there, well, then we rethink what we know. See what happens." She patted his hand reassuringly and disengaged her arm. "It's late. I'm going to bed and you should as well it’s a long ride and you'll want an early start."

He laughed and gave a small moan. "I hate early starts."

*************************

He woke in the morning to find an old black man standing by the side of his bed, holding a tray and studying him intently. His head was woozy and his mouth tasted like an old rag left too long in some corner, but the pain in his side had eased.

"I expect you would dearly love some of this water," the man said, giving him a kind smile. He deftly placed the tray on a table near the head of the bed, beyond Heath's line of sight, returned with a spare pillow and helped lift him up by slipping the second pillow behind his head. The movement woke the demon in his stomach and ribs and it was all he could do not to cry out.

"I've got a little more of that medicine, to help the pain." He looked at the proffered spoon of bitter relief with yearning, but he shook his head no. He could take that medicine once but knew he couldn't do it again without paying a heavy price. 

"I'm good, thanks. I thank you for the water though." He was amazed at how weak his voice sounded. He felt like cursing and took a moment to calm himself. Nothing to be angry at here; he'd known what was going to happen when he went out in the street for that little sister of his. No one to blame here no reason for anger, just one of those things happens when a man's got a sister. He smiled a little on the sister notion and thought maybe all sisters didn't go riding to town on a Saturday night.

" I'm Silas." The old black man said smiling at him kindly, his eyes almost twinkling with good humor and kindness. "Now I expect you could use a little help, doing what a man needs to do in the morning?" 

He looked at him his head bent a little at the shame of needing help with this thing a child should be able to do for himself. "Not my first time in a sick room, child. You just let me help and we'll be done in a minute."

The old man was as good as his word. Helping him turn on his side in the bed so gently, minding the wound, and so matter of fact in his help with the fancy porcelain chamber pot, that after a moment he was able to ignore his embarrassment and get done what needed doing. He knew the old man felt the ridges on his back when he eased him back on to the pillows, fussing with the blanket. But he said nothing and no change in the kind expression on his face indicated any repulsion. He figured that old man had probably seen his share of these kinds of scars and had no doubt where they came from. 

"Now I've got some sleeping clothes here we could try to get you into if you want? Miz Barkley said you might want these. I'm thinking if we wash you up a bit and get you into some clothes, you’ll be a lot happier here?"

"I'd be a lot happier somewhere else," he said, looking toward the window where the sun was shining brightly. He should be out digging an irrigation ditch, not lying here in this fancy room. Now that he was awake, he looked around with some amazement. He had never see the like of this room. It was huge; near as big as the house he'd lived in with his mother. He could see fancy, heavy drapes on the window hanging clear to the floor. There was a big fireplace with a fancy mantle all carved, with a big picture on the wall of some mountains with a red sunset. 

The bed he was lying in was purely fine. He thought he must be lying on a feather bed. He'd seen them in some of the fancy houses they'd burned in Tennessee and Mississippi, fancy ticking full of feathers. Course, by the time he'd seen them, they'd been half empty, feathers all over. But that's what Luke had told him they were, beds for sleeping on. Even the ceiling over his head was painted a pale blue color. He'd never seen a painted ceiling before, sure was a fine thing, like having the sky inside. 

The old man stood there, waiting while he gazed around the room in wonder. He supposed the old man was used to people coming in this house and gaping like farmers their first time to town. 

"Mr. Heath, don't think you’re going anywhere, at least ‘til you can stand up." The old man's kind expression took all of the sting out of his words and he was forced to return his smile.

"Reckon you’re right."

"But you’re gonna be a lot happier here after I get you clean and dressed. The Lord does love us clean and I suspect you'd like to be dressed."

It took almost twenty minutes for the old man to gently wash him with a rag, dry him and help him into the soft cotton clothes. Even doing almost nothing to help, he was exhausted by the end of the twenty minutes, his vision edged with black as he fought to not fall down that deep well that beckoned him with no pain and no dreams.

"Now I got a little food for you."

The old man brought a glass from the table he couldn't see at the head of the bed and placed it in his hand. Silas held on to his hand until he was sure he had a good hold of the glass and could manage it on his own. "You need to drink, to make up the blood you lost. Here now, you drink this, nothing finer in all this country."

He took a tentative swallow of the liquid. He had never drunk anything like that before in his life. He'd eaten oranges, but he never thought anyone could have so many they could make juice with them. So many they could keep them over the winter and make juice with them in May. It was sweet and tart at the same time, the bits of the pulp giving it substance. The pure delight of it surprised him, and even with the white-hot poker of pain in his middle, he smiled. "Believe you're right. That was very fine." 

"Now here's some scrambled eggs and a piece of toast. Doctor says light food, so you start here. We'll see how this goes and if it stays where you put it." The man placed a tray in his lap and stood back, waiting for him to eat. He felt uncomfortable, that man just watching him eat. But sore as his stomach was, he hadn't eaten anything all the previous day and he was hungry and he knew part of his weakness was the hunger. The food was a wonder. The eggs were light and fluffy, seasoned with a bit of pork sausage and peppers, the toast fresh bread with honey.

On his birthday, his mama always tried to make him a special breakfast before he went to work. There was always a treat for his birthday breakfast. Sometimes an egg boiled soft and runny, other times a little honey for his porridge or a bit of jelly. He knew special breakfasts, but he had never had one like this. He wished his mama could have tasted those eggs with that sausage mixed in there, just the little bit to flavor them. He knew there had been more then one egg scrambled in there. He thought there might have been three eggs. There was more then he could eat, even hungry as he was. 

"You could save this, Mr. Silas, I would surely like to finish it later," he asked, hating to think of that fine food wasted.

"Just Silas, and don't worry. I’ll bring you some more in a bit. You rest now."

The old man lifted his shoulders from the extra pillow and removed it so he lay flat again. "I'll be back, by and by. See if you need anything."

Heath made one more play for the eggs. "You could leave those?" He surely hated to thing of those eggs going, him too sick and sore to do them justice.

"There's more, don’t you worry on it." The old man gently patted his shoulder. "I got things to do but I’ll be back."

The old man left, taking the eggs and tray and then he returned a moment later for the dirty wash water and the chamber pot. "I’ll put this little bell here by your hand, here on this table. You need something, you ring it."

He nodded his understanding, although he vowed he would throw himself out the window before he would summon that kind old man with a bell. The door closed and he shut his eyes and tried to think what he was to do. He knew he had a fever, he could tell from the way he ached all over and how dry and hot he was this early in the day. He put his hand down on the hole in his side. He could feel the heat around the wound. The doctor was sure enough right; he had him an infection in that hole. 

He tried to think what to do, how to get away from here before he was any more into these people's lives. He thought he if he could rest up the remainder of the day, he could maybe get away tomorrow. He just needed to get enough stronger to get ahead of the infection and he could ride back up into the mountains and heal up again. He'd come down too soon. If it hadn't been the fight in town, would have been a fight with Barrett or Nick. Someone was bound to hit that hole. He'd been so hot to see this family, he'd been too quick. He knew better. He knew not to put himself in the way of things, if he couldn't cover his own back. 

He'd been foolish and now he was paying the price and dragging the Barkleys into his payment. He would sleep and heal today and leave tomorrow in the morning, before any of these people were even awake. He tasted those eggs again on his tongue. Maybe Silas would bring back the rest of those eggs later for his lunch, was his last thought before he slept.


	2. Chapter 2

************************  
"How is he, Mother?" Audra dropped a quick kiss on her mother's cheek as she passed her on the way to her chair. 

"Silas says he had a good breakfast and fell back to sleep. I think he'll fine." Victoria smiled at her daughter as she stirred her tea and studied the empty seat at the opposite end of the table.

"Where's Jarrod this morning? Even he usually manages to be up by this hour." Nick speared a steak from the platter in the middle of the table and added a huge pile of scrambled eggs next to it on his plate.

"Jarrod is off doing me a favor, he should be back this evening."

Nick looked at her surprised. "In Stockton, at this hour?"

"No, Nick, not in Stockton and he left two hours ago." Victoria tried to end the discussion, but knew Nick could ignore any sort of set down if he was in pursuit of something he wanted. She just hoped he wouldn't be interested enough in Jarrod's travels to keep this discussion going. "What are your plans for the day?"

"We're going to start gathering and branding this morning. I want to get as many of the calves moved up into the mountains as I can before it gets any hotter. This hot weather has come on ahead of usual. It's pushing us." 

Nick looked out the window at the cloudless sky, 7:00 a.m. and already over 70 out. It was going to be another hot day. "I hate messing with those calves in the heat. Next thing you know, we got dead calves and stressed out mothers, not to mention worn out ponies."

Nick talked on about his concerns over the weather and the cattle and Victoria went back to her thoughts about the cowboy laying the bedroom upstairs. She wondered if she could talk to him. He had been so upset last night and in so much pain she hadn't even tried. She wondered if it had just been modesty that had upset him so much when she had tried to help him out of his shirt. Maybe he had been disoriented. Pain and fever could do that to a man; make him fight a battle only he could see. 

She realized she had become too lost in her own thoughts when she heard Nick repeating the same question to her.

"I’m sorry, dear, I was a million miles away. What did you say?"

"I said, I'd get a couple of hands to come in and move that cowboy out to the bunkhouse. I'd like to do that before I ride out to the branding."

"No, thank you, Nick, he's fine where he is."

"Since when do we bring the hands in here for doctoring?" She could hear his voice starting to rise. Oh Nick, he brought so much passion to everything, nothing half way for Nick. She wondered at Jarrod so rational and measured and Nick so passionate and impulsive. How was it there had been no mixing of those traits in her two sons? Oh Jarrod had the passion, no doubt about that, but he measured everything before he moved, sometimes he measured too fully and moved too slowly for even her taste, but it was never from lack of passion. But Nick, he never seemed to think twice about anything. Sometimes she wondered if he even thought once.

"Nick, you brought him in here, because you thought you’d killed him. He's in here and he'll stay in here until he can leave under his own steam." She guessed they must get some fair measure of their passion from her and almost smiled at her son.

"Yes, Mother." He didn't say he was sorry, but she knew from the look on his face that he was remembering his fear from last night. She suspected he probably had hurt the young man and knew, beneath all of his bluster, he felt guilty about the beating.

"Howard says the wound is infected. He thinks most of the damage must have been done in Stockton. It will take the infection a few days to drain out of the wound. Then he can start to heal again."

"Oh Mother, that was my fault." Audra, always a bit dramatic as girls of nineteen tended to be, looked heart broken.

"AND THAT REMINDS ME. JUST WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? WHAT WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF THAT COWBOY HADN'T BEEN THERE TO RESCUE YOU?"

"NICK, please, Nick. We went all through this the other night. She's sorry and we aren't going to go into it again now." 

At least she hoped Audra was sorry. She wasn't sure Audra understood yet how much danger she'd been in. She looked over at her daughter, her head now bent over her dish, looking contrite. How long would that last? She didn't want her to grow up fearful. She wanted her to be as bold and free as she could. But she also needed to understand the danger of that boldness and freedom. She decided she would speak with Audra again about the trip to Stockton, but not now when Nick would just bully his way into the discussion. This needed to be handled with more delicacy than Nick could manage.

"So you’re keeping that cowhand in here until the wound heals? Will we be doctoring all the hands in the house now?"

Oh for heaven's sake, Nick, she thought and then realized he had a legitimate grievance. They didn't doctor the hands in the house. They had a room in the bunkhouse for any injured workers. She had to know though, before she sent this boy out of the house. Had to know, if he belong in that room upstairs or out in the bunkhouse.

"He's here now, Nick. He's here because of what he did for Audra and because of what you did to him. Let's leave it at that for the time being. He's not going anywhere until Howard comes out and sees him tomorrow."

Nick gave in. "I'm off. I have three thousand calves to brand. McCall's going to be wondering if I've given up ranching," Nick rose from the table and came around to give Victoria a quick kiss on the cheek. She patted his arm absently and then regretted her distraction.

"Nick, be careful," and smiled at him. She loved this big son with his honest loves and hates all lying on the surface. He gave her a big smile and with his spurs jingling, headed out the door with a bit more of a swagger in his stride. Tom's death had been so hard for him. She knew that this talking about the branding and the weather at the table was him talking to Tom through them, his trying to share the worry of his decisions, the weight of his responsibilities. She could do almost nothing to help him except listen and today she hadn't even done that.

She drank some of her tea and found it cold. She must have been sitting there, stirring it for some time to have it so cold. She decided she would check on the boy and then sit Audra down for a little talk.

The boy was sleeping when she got to his room. She realized it was the first time she had seen him in the daylight. She stood in the doorway and just looked at him. He was a beautiful boy, or would be if he weren’t so thin and tired looking. His face was a bit flushed and she guessed that must be from the fever. The flushed cheeks made him look even younger. He was just a boy, his skin still smooth in spite of his life lived outside. 

She thought he had more the look of Tom than any of her other children. She knew it was partly the coloring. Tom had been so fair haired when she had first seen him, his hair the color of wheat, paler than this boy's hair, more the color of Audra's. But this boy had more the look of Tom than Audra, no doubt because he was a boy. 

It wasn't his looks that had arrested her attention that night at the fire, though. She hadn't been able to see him clearly enough to know what he looked like in the dark; it had been the way he moved, the way he sat his horse that had caught her eye. Tom had been more at home on a horse than on foot. 

All her children could ride; of course, they were all good riders, put on their first horse while they were still learning to walk. But this boy, riding up to the fire, wasn't just a good rider. In a land where everyone rode, this boy's grace on his horse as she watched him riding beside her daughter had brought back memories she hadn't known she had. She had seen Tom and Audra ride together so often and that night, watching this boy and Audra gallop up to that fire, she had thought she'd seen Tom again. 

Now, looking at him lying on the bed, his head turned toward the light, she felt tears pricking at her eyes, tears for a Tom Barkley who had been gone for thirty years. For the youth and love they had shared, for the early days of the their marriage, for the times she had turned in her bed and looked at his face and seen the face she saw now laying on that pillow. This boy was a gift of remembrance of a Tom Barkley she had known as a young girl, a remembrance of a life lived and now past. 

She walked up to him and laid her hand lightly on his forehead feeling for fever. She almost jumped back as his eyes opened without any part of his body betraying his awareness. She smiled at him. Tom used to do that to her in the morning. She would be lying in the bed looking at him, admiring him truth be told, and suddenly he would open his eyes and be staring right at her. It always surprised her that he could wake so completely, so instantly.

"How are you feeling?" She asked pleased not to hear the catch in her voice she'd half feared.

"Much better, ma'am." He reached a hand to push the blanket down from where it was brushing against his chin, the sleeve of Nick's shirt covering most of his fingers it was so long. "Should be gettin' on my way."

"Oh, no you don't. Doctor Merar is coming back out to see you tomorrow, and since your awake, I'm going to take a look at that wound and see if it's draining as it should."

She could see him scrambling for something to forestall her, but she just ignored him. She'd nursed her boys enough to know when to argue and when to ignore. "I'll be back in a few minutes with a fresh bandage and water."

When she got back, he was still lying there but it was apparent from the condition of the blankets he'd made a try at getting out of the bed. His pillow was on the floor along with most of the blanket but he wasn't going any where for a while. She could tell from the crooked way he was lying on the bed that he hadn't managed to even get his legs out. 

She didn't say anything. She put the basin of water on the table, picked up the pillow and pulled the blankets straight for him. He looked off into some middle distance beyond her head, no doubt hoping she would just disappear, like a bad dream. She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the blanket and sheet down and opened up his shirt. His face was flushed and she knew it was more than the fever.

"Listen Heath, I have two sons and I've been married for over thirty years. I'm going to take this bandage off and clean that wound. There is nothing for you to be shy about." She tried to put him at ease.

"Ma'am I haven't been married … and I'm not used to ladies on my bed." He stopped speaking and finally looked directly at her, his eyes the pale blue she'd known they would be. "Guess I can't help shy," and he gave a half smile that almost broke her heart. Oh, Tom, she wondered, where did the years go, when did you stop being this boy and I stop being the girl who married you. She looked away for a moment. She couldn't look at him any more, he gave her such a feeling of nostalgia for a life so long past. 

The wound was angry and swollen. The drain Howard had put in had kept the wound from closing and some amount of pus had come out and stained the bandage, but she suspected there was a great deal more in there. "I'm going to get some hot water and we're going to try putting some hot compresses on that. See if I can draw more of the infection out." 

In the daylight, she could see how thin he was, almost gaunt, all of his ribs clearly visible. She thought some of this must be from the healing of the original wound but it also spoke of a long while without good food. 

She wanted to speak to him. She had so many questions she wanted to ask, answers she hoped he had. She sat and looked at him for almost a minute. He returned her look silently, neither of them knowing what to say. She suspected both of them knew more than they were willing to admit. 

She thought, He knows, this was no accident his being here on the ranch. He came looking. He said nothing and finally he turned away from her and looked toward the window again. 

"I should really go," he spoke almost wistfully. She thought that whatever his story was, he was no con man out for their money. 

She put her hand on the side of his face and when he looked up surprised, almost shocked, she said, "Not yet." 

He nodded then and gave that half smile. "I'm sorry."

Now it was her turn to nod. "Nothing for you to be sorry for, dear."

"I should never have come … I just wanted to see."

"I'm glad you did." She found that she was. Suddenly she was filled with joy at his coming, her eyes filled with tears and she could hardly speak. "I'm so very glad you came."

She took his hand where it lay on top of the covers and looked at it. It was the hand of a man who made his living hard. The palm was blistered, the back covered with a myriad of small scars and cuts, the dirt ingrained until it was part of the flesh. She stroked his hand for a moment and then meeting his eyes again, smiled. They sat silently for a few minutes, neither of them knowing what to say.

"I'll just go get that hot water." She pulled the blanket back up over his bare chest and rose from the bed. "I'm very glad you are here," she told him again, suddenly feeling a lightness of spirit, a hope for tomorrow she hadn't felt since Tom died.

**************************

Six hours of riding brought him from early summer to early spring. At the higher elevation, the grass was just getting to that rich green of an alpine spring, the leaves on the trailside shrubs were still small and uncertain, afraid of a last frost. The sun though, gave promise of the season to come. It was high in the sky, bright and warm; the cool felt nice after the early summer heat of the valley and he found himself almost gawking at the surrounding scenery. His family always went up into the mountains for a time in the summer to avoid the awful valley heat and to enjoy each other's company. The mountains had always meant the pleasure of family and the ease of good times to him. He found himself almost eager to see what Strawberry would bring.

The town, when he arrived, was a disappointment. It looked to have once been the worst, or best, kind of mining town. He saw no fewer then five empty saloons, the hastily constructed buildings already falling apart under the tyranny of the high mountain winters. The sole remaining saloon that seemed to be open looked in little better condition. 

He tied his horse in front of the saloon and went inside. The interior looked no better then the outside, two tables still standing, a few chairs not broken, half a mirror and a dusty old man coming in from the back of the building.

"Well, howdy there. We don't get much business here. What can I get you?"

Jarrod didn't even bother trying to get something for nothing and put a five dollar gold piece down on the bar. "I'm really looking for information, not drink."

The man eyed the money and gave Jarrod a smile. "Only bar in town. Sooner or later most folks around come through here."

"This goes back a ways. I'm looking for a woman, named Thomson. Lived here say, twenty years ago."

"Yeah that goes back a ways alright. I don’t know from twenty years ago. There were two, three thousand folks around this area then. This was a busy place twenty years ago." The man shook his head sadly still eying the money. "There used to be a Thomson lived here though, recent like. She died, oh a month ago I think. Wasn't a long time ago she died."

"Who would know more about her?" Jarrod removed his finger from the gold piece and the man picked it up and quickly dropped it into his pocket.

"Keep going east right out of town there's a little clapboard house painted white with blue trim. Miz Rachel Caulfield lives there. She and Miz Thomson were real good friends."

Jarrod nodded his thanks and walked out to his horse. He led his horse through town, enjoying the stretch of his legs after the long ride. There wasn't much still operating in town; a small general store didn't look over stocked with supplies. There was a hotel, but it was hard to tell if it was still open or not. He decided since the front window wasn't broken, someone must be looking after the place. Rachel Caulfield's house was easy to find, the only house in town that looked as if it had ever been painted, and although the white paint was mostly peeled off the blue trim still gave it a cheerful, cared about appearance. 

He loosened the cinch on his saddle and carefully tied his horse to a hitching rail across the road. No sense in leaving a pile of horse manure in front of her house. 

He didn't have to knock; she met him at the front door, a tall, angular woman with salt and pepper hair tied up in a knot on top of her head. She had dark brown eyes under heavy brows and a no nonsense look that reminded him of a teacher he'd had early in his career. "Miss Caulfield?"

"I'm Mrs. Caulfield." There was an eastern twang to her voice, Massachusetts or Connecticut he thought.

"I'm Jarrod Barkley. I wanted to ask you some questions about a friend of yours, a woman named Thomson." He saw her mouth and eyes tighten, not at the mention of Thomson, but at the mention of his name. He had cross-examined too many witnesses not to know the signs of a stroke close to the bone. While the name Barkley was well known in California, he didn't think this was just the reaction of recognizing a well-known name. This was something else. 

"Guess you'd better come in. I'll make some coffee." While the invitation sounded grudging, he had been the recipient of too much hardscrabble hospitality in his time not to recognize that it was genuine. He removed his hat and carefully wiped his boots before following her into the small house. He had known from her neatly swept front porch and carefully tended small yard that the house would be clean and neat. He wondered what had brought her to this mining town and what had kept her when most had left with the closing of the mine ten years ago.

They spoke of the town and the weather while she went through the ritual of boiling the coffee and setting the table. She showed him where to wash behind the house and had a small plate of bread and butter on the table along with the coffee when he returned. They each had several swallows of the weak coffee before she began to speak.

"Leah Thomson's been dead over a month. She's buried outside town. Keep going east, you'll see a stand of redwoods. She's buried in there."

"Did she have a son?" he asked and was rewarded with another tightening of her face that told him yes before she ever spoke.

"Yes, she did. Is he some business of yours?"

"I think he might be, yes." Jarrod studied her face closely, now that he knew how readily it revealed her thoughts. He supposed this might be the most important cross-examination he had ever made and he realized he had done no preparation. He had spent the ride thinking about his father, not thinking about the questions he should be asking, how to lead this witness to reveal what he needed to know. He marveled at his short sightedness. Why had he not thought ahead? Had he hoped he wouldn't find anything? Had he hoped his mother was wrong and that by not thinking, he could not learn what he feared? Or had he shied away from thinking about the questions because he hadn’t wanted to confront his father's possible perfidy, his betrayal of his mother, and yes, his betrayal of all of them with a woman in a mining town twenty years ago?

"Yes,” she said. “I suppose he might be." She looked down at her coffee, effectively hiding her face from him. But he didn't need to see her face now, thunderstruck by her words. She knew. Unless this was some impossible scheme concocted by a penniless young cowboy and this old woman, then she knew something about this Thomson woman, her son and the name Barkley.

"Will you tell me?" he asked gently. He thought about touching her hand but decided she would resent this familiarity. He wanted to do nothing that would allow her to shut him out at this point. He was now in a fever to know what she could tell him. It was all he could do not to yell his questions at her. But his ability to take his time, to ask the gentle questions, was why he was here and not Nick. So he asked and waited.

"Why do you ask?" She had been so slow to speak, he had feared she would just stop talking.

"There is a young man at our ranch. His name is Heath, Heath Thomson. My mother sent me to ask about him."

Silence again sat over the pair as they both drank a little of the now cool weak coffee. "Have a little bread and butter. I'll just get some more coffee."

He let her fuss with the coffee cups for a bit and push the bread and butter toward him. He knew she was thinking, trying to decide what to do and he gave her time.

"What's Heath told you?"

"Nothing. We've asked him nothing and he's told us nothing. He was injured. My mother is caring for him. She saw something and sent me here to ask." Jarrod had found that often it was necessary to give information in order to receive it. Now he gave her the injury and the caring. Told her that his mother was caring for him, for Heath, that they hadn't harmed the boy and were trying to look after him.

Her hands flew to her mouth and her head came up sharply from the contemplation of her cup. "Hurt. Is he all right? Oh my. Poor Heath, so much pain in that boy's life."

Now he did touch her. He reached across the table and touched her arm. "He's going to be fine. He was shot some time ago, weeks ago, but it's healing." He hoped he was telling her the truth, but he didn't want to talk about past injuries. He wanted to know about the boy's mother and her lack of surprise to hear that a Barkley was asking about the boy.

"You’re sure. That boy has been through so much pain…" She shook her head and he was surprised to see tears in her eyes. This was not a woman who cried easily, the tears surprised him.

"The doctor was out to see him. Said he needed to be kept warm and to rest and he would be fine."

She sat up straighter in the chair, effectively pulling her arm from his hand and then absently rubbed the place he had touched. "Poor boy." She shook her head again. "He came up here to be with Leah the last week before she died. Then we buried her out there in the redwoods. I think it nearly broke his heart, her dying. They were very close. The past few years, not close physically, you understand. He had to go where he could find work, but the love between the two of them, you could almost see that love, it was so strong." She quickly wiped a tear with a small handkerchief she had up her sleeve.

"But you don't want to know about that, do you. You want to know about Heath and his father." All the sentimentality was gone from her voice now. It was harder and stronger, as was the look she gave him.

"Yes." He nodded, not wanting to say too much, to interrupt, now that she was talking.

"Well, there isn't much to tell. It's an old enough story. Young girl, naïve, in love and an older man smitten by her youth and her beauty." She stopped speaking for a minute and looked beyond him, lost in the past, he suspected. He said nothing and waited her out. He thought she had a story she wanted to tell and would get to it if he gave her enough time.

"He was injured, a fight, a robbery. I knew Leah then but we weren't the good friends we became, but we were friends… even then, friends. She was such a kind, gentle woman, it was easy to be friends with her. She had a joy about her that made your day better if you spoke with her."

"But my husband was still alive then and I had my life at home. So I didn't spend so much time with her as I did later, after Heath was born. We became very close later, the three of us raising that boy." She smiled for the first time and he realized she must have been a very handsome woman at one time. That those dark eyes and dark brows would have been striking coupled with her erect carriage and slim frame. 

"Leah worked in the hotel. Her brother owned it and she worked for him, cooked, cleaned. She'd had a husband but the man had abandoned her here, oh I think maybe two years before all of this. She lived in one of those miners' tents on the outside of town. There were a lot of them then, in the hey day of this place. She lived there, worked in the hotel." 

Another period of silence, but now he knew she would go on and leaned back a little in his chair as he waited her out and allowed her to paint a picture of this town twenty years ago. He had no trouble imagining it. His family owned mines all over California, he had seen plenty of mining towns. The wild time when the strike first comes in and any man might make his fortune, the mining time when the easy ore is gone and it takes money to get to the rest, the miners replacing the dreamers who were there for the quick riches and then the end of so many of the towns as the ore plays out, the mines close down and the town dies.

"She found him out in back of the hotel on her way home from work. She saw something glittering on the ground when she opened the back door of the hotel to leave and when she bent to pick it up, she saw him. She always said he looked more dead than alive and at first she thought he was just a pile of old clothes. Somehow, she managed to get him up and walking and back to her tent. I guess her brother wouldn't let him back in the hotel. He'd been staying there, but robbed, he had no money to pay his bill. Her brother wouldn't let his own mother stay on charity. Heaven knows he never showed any to his sister." 

He watched her sip her coffee, letting her anger settle a bit before she continued her narrative. "She used to tell that part of the story to the boy all the time. That's why I remember it so well."

"He was hurt pretty badly. Had taken a bad blow to the head. He was a long time getting his strength back. It was weeks before he could even get out of bed. Leah cared for him all that time, worked, shared her little bit of food with him and cared for him. He was here perhaps two months. Then he left. He just about broke her heart. She was so sad, I was afraid she might do herself some harm. But she was much too Christian a woman to do that. And then she found she was with child and all the joy returned." She smiled at Jarrod. 

"Most women would have been desperate, afraid to find themselves carrying a man's child, not married and with the man long gone, but Leah was …" She paused, looking for the word she wanted. "She was joyful, full of joy. That joyfulness never left her. The baby was born and they were so poor."

"Hannah, she's an old former slave, lives a bit further out of town. She and Leah were always close, and the two of them did everything trying to raise that child. I helped as much I could but between the three of us, we didn't have much more than a bean. My husband died and I took in some sewing try to stretch what little money I had. Hannah and Leah did washing for the miners and Leah worked for her brother, but they had no money. What they had though, was love for that boy and Leah's joy. I guess that boy was mostly raised on joy and love."

"And the man. Did you ever know his name?" Jarrod asked when Rachel remained silent lost in the past for several minutes, her story apparently told.

"Oh yes. Leah never told Heath. That boy was a plague there for a while, wanted to know his father's name but she would never tell. She told me that the boy was his father's gift to her. Tom Barkley's gift to her." She looked at him defiantly. "She told the boy his father's name just before she died."

"Why didn't she tell my father?" Jarrod wasn't sure he asked the question of Rachel or himself.

"She wasn't one for asking or taking charity. She had all the pride you find among mountain people everywhere. She would never have stood at your father’s backdoor with his son beside her, asking his charity." She spoke with some bitterness and Jarrod couldn't blame her. He supposed he would have felt the same way. If a man leaves a woman with his son without a backward glance, what should the woman expect if she presents herself at the door with that boy in tow? Charity would be the best such a woman could expect.

"I don't think he ever knew. I think, surely, if he had known he would have done something for the boy, for them both." Jarrod prayed he was right, knew he was right. His father loved children and would never have left one of his own in want.

"Ask yourself, Mr. Barkley, why he never knew. Don't women who lay with men conceive children? How is it Mr. Barkley laid with Leah and rode away and never asked?"

Jarrod looked away. He had no answer to that question. There was no answer he knew. Men who lay with women made children. It was as God had made the world and his father had ridden home to his family and never looked back to see what he had left in the mountains.

"Heath has an old coin on a chain. Do you know anything about that?" Jarrod asked, needing to pin down all of the evidence. Needing to know everything no matter how it hurt.

"Tom gave it to her. She told me he said it was lucky and he wanted her to have luck. It was that coin she saw glittering the night she found him. She gave it to Heath, I believe. Mr. Barkley gave her a locket too. We buried that with her. But the boy kept the coin." She stood now and began clearing the table. Finished with her story.

Jarrod remained seated at the small table, looking at its scarred surface, thinking about the father that loved and cared for him, the father who bought him a pony, hunted and fished with him. Tried to find the father who sat with him when he was ill and read to him at night in the man who conceived a child in a mining town and never looked back.

"Hannah lives in Leah's old house now. It’s only a few hundred yards further down the road to the east. It's got two windows on the front and a red chair in the yard."

Jarrod nodded at his dismissal, stood and held his hat in front of himself as he said his thanks and good bye. As he walked across the road toward his horse, Rachel called out to him one last time. "You say hello to Heath for me please."

"Yes, ma'am, I will." He smiled at her, although he was so sad he had to think hard how to make his mouth turn up in the polite gesture.

Hannah's house, Leah Thomson's old house, was very small, not really much more than one room with a table and chairs in the front and a small kitchen in the back. Off to one side was a separate corner area screened by a piece of muslin hung as a curtain, the whole heated by a small pot bellied stove in the kitchen with a chimney stuck out the back wall. It was clean and spare, as was the woman who met him at the door. 

She looked to be somewhere between sixty and ninety; she would have made a good mate for Silas, he thought, she had that same quiet dignity and reserve beneath a welcoming smile. The reserve he suspected made of holding something back for yourself, of never quite being sure of your welcome.

She was kind and invited him inside for yet more coffee. This coffee too was weak and hot. Here there were biscuits and jam. The biscuits were delicious, light and sweet even though cold, no doubt left from her breakfast.

Yes, she knew Leah and Heath. Yes she remembered Heath's father. At this point though, she became very reserved and managed to repeatedly move the conversation away from his questions. She didn't want to tell him what he wanted to know. They sparred for a little while until he smiled at her and surrendered. He had spent too much time trying to get his way with Silas who would never say "No" and never give in.

"I can see you don't want to tell me about Heath's father. Let me tell you why I ask." He paused. He had admitted this to himself, but saying it out loud was proving to be more difficult than he had anticipated. He lived his life by what was said. Words for him had a great deal of value and these words more than most. 

"I ask because I think Heath's father might be my father." He paused again. What did he want from this woman? "I want to know if you can tell me anything about what happened here twenty years ago that will help me know if that's the case." He guessed that was what he wanted. Some more proof of what he already knew. Proof that would convince his brother, he decided. Prove Heath's brotherhood to his other brother, who had not heard Rachel's testimony, seen the truth of what she said in her face.

"Oh, Miss Leah, she loved that man. She loved him so much but he left her. He had a family and he left her." The old woman nodded to herself and smiled slightly. "After he left her, she was so sad. Hadn't been for that baby, I think she would have died, she was so sad. But that baby. She loved that baby so much before he was ever born, and she never stopped loving him more than life itself," The old woman looked at him now and gave him a big smile. "He was an easy boy to love, our Heath."

"Do you know who the baby’s father was?"

"I didn't know his name. I called him Mr. Tom, I don't recall his family name, just Mr. Tom." 

Jarrod nodded. It had been a long time ago. He supposed to this old woman, it hadn't really mattered what the man's name was. He nodded his thanks. "Thank you for the coffee and your time."

"Will you see my Heath?" she asked.

"Yes, I will."

"You tell him to be careful and we love him." She smiled at him so kindly that in spite of his disappointment at her lack of information, he smiled back. Love and joy.

He tightened the cinch on Jingo and looked back down the street at the town. He considered stopping at the hotel but thought perhaps he had what he came for now. He knew the boy had been born in Strawberry and that Tom Barkley was almost certainly his father. He couldn't understand how it could be so. How his father could have done this thing, but he thought that was a problem for another day. The issue now was the boy back at the ranch. He turned the gelding and started the long ride home. His mother was waiting for him and what he now knew.

************************


	3. Chapter 3

Jarrod didn't get home until after 8:00 that evening, by which time the family had all eaten. Victoria rose as soon as she heard the big door open and met him in the front foyer. He was tired and hungry and very dirty. She gave him a quick hug and then made a face at his trail dust on her gold gown. He laughed at her gently before becoming serious.

"How's our guest?"

"He's better I think, not a great deal better but the infection is draining and he's been sleeping all day." She wanted to tell him about the conversation with the boy when she had realized who he was, but she could see how tired Jarrod was.

"Go and wash. I'll warm some supper for you and have it in the kitchen."

"Thank you, lovely lady." She could see by the smile that didn't quite make it to his eyes that he had something he didn't want to tell her.

"Hurry, Jarrod."

As he headed up the stairs Audra and Nick called out a greeting from the sitting room, which he returned without looking in at them. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated outside the guest room door. He did want to wash, but after the long ride home thinking about fathers and brothers, he very much wanted to look at this new brother again, to see him as a brother.

He opened the door as quietly as he could, remained in the hall and just looked into the room. There was a lamp on the table at the head of the bed, turned low. Its uncertain light didn't extend far into the room. He couldn't see the boy's face, only his shape in the shadow of the headboard. Even so, he stood there for a minute, just looking at the shape in the bed and tried to understand what he felt.

At the beginning of the ride home, there had been anger, anger at this boy for disrupting their lives, anger at his father on his mother's behalf and then on his own behalf. Later he had felt a sorrow, for lost illusions of parental perfection he guessed. Sad that his father had slept with this unknown woman, sad that he had left her, apparently without a backward glance, to raise his son, and sorrow for the life she and the boy had endured. Near the end of his ride though, he had begun to feel anticipation about this boy. Now he found he felt a sort of excitement, an eagerness such as he felt before the cross-examination in an important case, a little anxiety about how the testimony would progress but primarily an excitement about the event to come. He was excited about this new brother, about the prospect of knowing this new member of their family, of watching this person become part of his family. He closed the door quietly, a small smile on his face. This was going to be all right, this was going to be just fine.

Mother was true to her word and had a warm plate of roast duck and potatoes for him when he got to the kitchen, along with a tall glass of whiskey. She put the plate before him and then sat down across from him at the kitchen table.

"You eat and I'll tell you my story." She smiled at him. "I know you're tired and we need to talk to Audra and Nick yet tonight."

He nodded, his mouth already full of food. God, yes, Nick.

"I spoke to the boy today. Oh, nothing specific. I went up to change his bandage. He'd been sleeping. I stood there looking at him and suddenly I just knew. I recognized your father in his face. I remembered what your father looked like when we married. I'm not saying he's some magical twin to your father, because he's not, but he certainly has the look of him." Her eyes shone. 

Jarrod couldn't remember when he had last seen her so happy, perhaps the day of Audra's 17th birthday party two years ago this coming June. That had been such a great party, all had been well in the valley, no railroad problem even on the horizon. He remembered his father taking Audra out for the first dance, and his mother dancing with him, her face glowing with happiness. She had that look about her now and he thought he understood and shared at least some of it.

"He said he was going. That he was sorry he had come." She had tears in her eyes again and quickly wiped at them with her finger. "I told him I was glad he had come, and Jarrod, I am. I am so glad he came here." 

Jarrod said nothing but continued to eat his supper while he thought about what his mother had said and about the way he had felt on the way home. 

"I believe he is my brother," Jarrod said as he wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it beside his now empty plate. "I spoke to a friend of his mother and she named Father immediately. The boy's mother died last month, that's when he found out who his father was. His mother had never told him."

"Did your father know, about the child?" He had known that this would to be as hard for her as it had been for him. This betrayal of the child was perhaps even more severe than the betrayal of his mother. 

"I don't know. Apparently there was no contact between them after he left. He never returned to Strawberry." He paused, but needed to tell her everything. "They were very poor."

His mother rose from the table, picked up his plate and silverware and walked away toward the sink with them. She put them down and then stood there with her back to him, her hands braced on the side of the counter. "How could he have just left them like that?"

"I'm sure he didn't know. The woman I spoke with, her name was Rachel Caulfield, indicated that the boy's mother would not have told Father, that she would not have sought any help from him, that she was very proud." Jarrod made all of the excuses for his father that he had made for him on the ride back from Strawberry. But all the excuses denied the main issue and he knew his mother was much too honest and wise to miss the hole in his defense.

"Yes, and why didn't he ask?" Jarrod could only nod. He had asked himself this question a hundred times in the last day and knew he would ask it many times more. Why indeed?

"So, what do we do now?" Jarrod asked. His mother turned and faced him, her arms crossed in front, her hands holding tightly to her arms. 

"He's a Barkley. He has as much of a right to what that means as any of you."

He smiled at his mother; she made him so proud.

"First we need to speak to Nick and Audra and then…"

"I hear someone talking about me. What's going on in here?" Nick came into the kitchen and immediately the room seemed much smaller.

*********************

"We need to talk, Nick, let's go into the other room." Victoria took him by the arm and turned him away from the kitchen, allowed his momentum to carry them both into the sitting room.

"So what are we talking about?" he asked, a big smile on his face as he led his mother to a chair, "and where has big brother been all day?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about. I have a story to tell you both and I hope you will do me the courtesy of listening to the whole thing before you start… disagreeing with my tale." Victoria smiled at Nick a bit sadly. This was going to be so hard for him. Audra would view it as a romantic tale but Nick would see it as an attack on his father.

The story was not long in the telling. She told them about the hard times, the dead baby, the anger and Tom's trip to Strawberry, about his return and the happy times that followed. 

As she spoke, Nick became increasingly agitated, no longer able to stand at the mantle, he began pacing the room, trying to stay true to her request for silence. When she said the fateful words, when she said she thought that boy upstairs was Tom's son, a son born of that trip to Strawberry, he could remain silent no longer. "NO, NO, NO."

"Nick, let me finish."

"NO, I WON'T HEAR THIS. ITS NOT TRUE."

"YOU WILL. You will let me speak," and he did. She could see the anger and the control it took him to stand and listen, but he stood and he heard her. She told them about the coin and finding it in the boy's pocket. 

She didn't tell them about her conversation with Heath in the bedroom earlier that day. She had told Jarrod, but as a shared moment of wonder, not as proof of something. She cherished the memory of those few moments they'd shared, and the joy at her recognition of the boy. She didn't want to use that joy she had felt to try and prove something to Nick. She wanted to hold it close, so she could remember it and again feel the warmth and connection she had to that boy and to Tom.

"All RIGHT, I LISTENED. I HEARD YOU TRY AND TELL ME THAT BOY UP THERE IS… THAT OUR FATHER…"

"Nick, just stop and lower your voice. We are all in the same room here." Victoria held her hands up to Nick with a sternness she couldn't usually muster in dealing with his loudness. "And I'm not finished yet. Jarrod has something to say."

"JUST WHAT ARE YOU SUGGESTING?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm telling you to stop yelling and listen to Jarrod." She had known this was going to be difficult, but she wanted all of the information out before she argued with Nick. She didn't want to have the same argument over each piece of information. She had been arguing with Nick for almost thirty years and she knew the quickest way through this was to have the argument once.

Jarrod waited until Nick, still fuming, had poured a drink and walked over to stand in front of the empty fireplace with his glass. Nick took a swallow of the whiskey and raised his glass for Jarrod to proceed.

Jarrod told of his conversation with Rachel Caulfield and of later speaking with Hannah. He finished by simply saying that for his part, he was convinced that the boy upstairs was his brother, Tom Barkley's son.

"WELL I'M NOT CONVINCED… SOME WHORE IN SOME MINING TOWN FINDS FATHER'S LUCKY COIN AND TELLS A FRIEND SHE'S SLEPT WITH TOM BARKLEY AND HER GET IS HIS BASTARD AND WE GIVE HIM THE RANCH."

Victoria closed her eyes and sighed softly; this was going to be a long evening.

The argument flowed back and forth for an hour. Audra, not unexpectedly, was excited about a new brother. She loved Nick and loved the dramatics, but at heart was a romantic and Victoria had known that she would love the idea of the lost son's discovery. She had a sweet heart and would readily take in any lost soul; this boy was easy to like and she'd known Audra was already half under his spell after her rescue in Stockton.

Nick ranted and raged and fumed. He defended his father and ranted against the boy. He would not be persuaded. Worn down, Victoria sighed, "the three of us are convinced he is a Barkley. Who do you think he is? What would you have us do, Nick?"

Nick didn't have Jarrod's education. He had reluctantly ignored his way through as much schooling as Tom and she had insisted he attend, his heart and mind already with the ranch, but he was no fool. The same sharp wits that made Jarrod such a good lawyer resided in Nick as well. He was not slow with an answer.

"I have no doubt he's someone's bastard, I just don't think he's Father's. He may even have been told by his mother that he's a Barkley but I have more faith in Father than I do in that boy's mother. Father would never leave a son to grow up alone in some mining camp. I think she found a lucky coin and told that boy a story. I don't argue that boy has done us a good turn. He took care of Audra when she was making an exhibition of herself in Stockton and I think he may have saved Jarrod's life at Sample's. I say we give him a reward and get him a train ticket out of the valley." Nick crossed his arms over his chest and rocked back on his heels, surveying the rest of the family, satisfied that they couldn't really refute his argument with their evidence.

This pronouncement managed to dissatisfy everyone. Audra was now angry with Nick, the only one who might have supported him. Victoria told him in no uncertain language that if he used that word in her house again he could go live somewhere else. Jarrod simply pointed out that a decision about the boy would find Nick out voted. 

The arguing continued for another hour with Nick moved not an inch in his position. In the end, Victoria had simply said he was out voted. It was her house and she would ask whomever she chose to live in it. She chose to have this son of Tom's live in her house. So far as his share of the estate, that was a decision for all of the shareholders. There were four and Nick was out voted.

"I will speak to him in the morning. I will tell him what I believe, what Jarrod has learned and ask him if he will stay here and live with us as Tom's son." She looked directly at Nick, "and as your brother."

"NOW SEE HERE. IF YOU GET TO CHOSE WHO LIVES IN YOUR HOUSE, HAVE I NO SAY IN WHO I TREAT AS A BROTHER?"

"I would say not, Nick, a brother is a position you're born into, you don't get any say in your relations." Jarrod smiled at his brother just a tad triumphantly.

"AND WHAT IS THIS NEW BROTHER GOING TO DO? WORK ON THE RANCH? WITH ME?"

This obvious fact was met with silence.

"Is there nothing that we can do to convince you, Nick?" Victoria tried one more time.

Give Nick his due, he stopped to think about his answer. "No, Mother, I don't think there is. I just don't believe Father would do this. Short of his coming back from the grave and telling me otherwise, I just can't see anything changing my mind." He looked at her sadly. "I'm sorry. I just don't believe it."

She walked over to him and took his arm, pulled his head down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I love you, Nicholas Barkley." She smiled sadly. 

"Let us leave it at this for the time being. I'm going to ask him to stay. If he agrees to stay, we will see if we can find a way he and Nick can work together. Please, Nick, can you do that?" She kept hold of his arm as she spoke, directing all of her words at this so strong, so stubborn son.

"I don't think I have any choice," he said begrudgingly. "Please try and see my point of view. I think he's either deluded or a con man. I think we’re starting down a road paved in pain for no good reason."

"Enough. I'm going to bed." Victoria gave Nick's arm a shake and then turned and headed up the stairs, followed by the other three. It was late and they were all tired, tired of arguing, tired of an emotional ride none of them had believed possible.

**************

"He must have heard us last night." His mother gave him a long look as she spoke.

"WELL I SAY GOOD RIDDANCE," he returned, not even trying to keep a smirk off his face.

"Do you really, brother. You can just let him go and never give him a second thought?" Jarrod examined him like some sort of interesting specimen he had found on the bottom of his boot. "Your brother and you're just letting him ride away?"

"He may be your brother, but he's not mine. I have all the brothers I need." He leaned toward Jarrod and tried to use his superior size to intimidate. Jarrod didn't budge, just returned him stare for stare.

"I don't believe you. Oh, I think you believe what you’re saying now. But in a few weeks, or months you’re going to understand who that boy is and you're going to be sorry." Jarrod's smug self-satisfaction was just so… smug. He wanted to smack him, wipe that smile right off his face. How could he even consider that saddle tramp was his brother? How could he consider that their father had been up in some mining town whoring, while their mother was down in the valley mourning their dead brother? Some times he thought all that education had just addled Jarrod's brain, had just robbed him of all common sense. 

"He's not well. He still has a fever and that wound needs to finish draining. The infection is just going to come back and he'll end up dead," his mother said. 

He couldn't believe how up set his mother seemed. But, of course, she wouldn't want anyone to suffer; she was a very gentle person beneath her tough exterior. 

"We need to find him and bring him back. He should at least be offered a place here. He can decide to leave but he should know that the offer is there." Yup, a very soft hearted person, his mother, and fair game for any con man or injured polecat.

He was tired of this argument. He had spent an hour the previous night lying in his bed trying to think how his mother's and Jarrod's claims about this boy could possibly be true. 

His mother said his father had slept with another woman. He'd supposed it was possible his father could have had slept with some woman, if as his mother said, they were having a hard time getting along. If his mother said it was so it must be true. It didn't seem likely, but she said it was true, so it must be so. He'd just never thought of his father doing that sort of thing. 

But what were the chances that there would be a child and that the child would come here? He'd thought it all through. Tried to think what he would have done had he been that child. He decided he would have come here, burned the place down. So in the end, he accepted that his father might have slept with a woman, that there might be a child, that the child might come to the ranch, but no way that boy lying up there could be that child, coin or no coin. No son of Tom Barkley, no brother of his would stand for being abandoned in some mining town without getting up a good head of rage and doing something about it. 

That boy had no rage in him, far as he could see had no anger in him at all. He'd stood with them at Sample's, saved Jarrod's life. Rescued Audra and never even spoken an angry word to any of them. Never even tried to claim he was a Barkley, truth be told. That just didn't make any sense to him. But then that left him wondering about the beating he'd given the boy, and wondering, if the boy wasn't claiming to be some long lost heir, what did he owe the boy for the beating?

"I wish you would find him and at least ask him to come back and talk to us." His mother addressed every one of them, but looked directly at him as she spoke.

The boy was gone and either he was some long lost brother or he was a young cowboy he had almost killed with his fists for no good reason. "All right. I'll go find him," he said, worn out with the talking and the thinking. He would just ask the boy, find him and ask him for his story. Didn't mean he needed to believe him or bring him back to the ranch. But he would ask him. Let the boy spin his yarn and he would listen.

"I'll check in Stockton. See where he went," Jarrod said.

I'll ride up north toward Plymouth and River Pines "

"Toward River Pines? Why in the world look there? There's nothing up there, especially this time of year except trappers, hunters and outlaws." 

"IF HE'S A BARKLEY THEN HE'LL THINK LIKE ONE. IF I WERE LEAVING MY LONG LOST FAMILY AND HAD A HOLE IN MY STOMACH AND DIDN'T WANT TO BE FOUND AND HAD NO MONEY, I WOULD HEAD UP TO THE MOUNTAINS. HEAL UP AND THEN HEAD UP NORTH OF SACRAMENTO AND FIND WORK. IF HE'S A DOWN ON HIS LUCK COWBOY, well he'll probably do the same thing." Sometimes he was amazed at Jarrod.

Jarrod just studied him. He could see him thinking through what he had said. He could see him picturing the map in his head, following the trails up into the mountains. "If he's gone that way, he'll be awfully hard to find."

"If he's a Barkley, as you believe, and he left because he doesn't want to make any claim on us, then he doesn't want to be found. So if you find him sitting at the hotel in town, he's no Barkley, he's a con man waiting for you to bite." He smiled triumphantly. Now that he was planning the trip, he knew that was what a he would have done. He would have gone to ground up in the mountains to heal up so he could work again. The boy was mountain bred, came from Strawberry, and he'd know that was where he could find game enough to live on while he healed. He figured with a dollar to his name, the boy wasn't going to any town, wouldn't buy him more than two nights in a hotel and couple of meals. That boy was going to need a couple of weeks, maybe a month before he could do hard work. 

"How will you find him up there?" Jarrod asked. 

He looked at his brother with astonishment; Jarrod really believed that boy was a Barkley, believed he had left with no thought of the riches here. He almost shook his head. He expected Jarrod would find the boy in the saloon in town smoking cigars and drinking whiskey, knowing he had hit the big time.

"I don’t suppose I will. I suspect you'll find him waiting to be discovered in Stockton. But if he's a Barkley and doesn't want to be found, that's the way he went, and if I stop talking and start riding, I should be able to catch up to him in a day or so. He's wounded and can only push himself and his horse so fast. If he's going that way I'll catch him. If I get going now." Saying that, he headed out the door.


	4. Chapter 4

He could hear Dan cry out as the whip hit his back, begging them to stop. Dan knew they wouldn't. Even knowing that they were going to whip Dan until he died, he still couldn't stop watching. He tried to say something to Dan but he couldn't make a sound beyond his own pain. To open his mouth to any sound would have been to open it to all the sounds of hell, and he hadn't come to that yet. He hoped that by the time he started screaming, he would be so far gone no one would hear him.

He heard Dan call out again, "NO, NO, NO."

He laid on the bed, breathing hard, still shaking with the fear the dream always brought. In many ways, the fear the dream brought was worse than the fear he had known that day in the camp. He had been so weak with hunger and the many small illnesses they all suffered that he hadn't lasted very long before the pain just drove him into unconsciousness. Not so in the dream, though. In the dream, it would go on and on and on. He would see Dan die, and then he would feel himself dying in such pain and fear.

He slowly rolled to his side and carefully swung his legs to the floor so he could reach the table beside the bed and get the glass of water he knew was there. He wondered what had woken him and was thankful for whatever it was. He'd known with the pain of the wound that the dreams wouldn't be far behind. It was one of the reasons he needed to leave before he humiliated himself any further.

Then he could hear what had woken him. Someone else was crying out in pain. "ALL RIGHT, I LISTENED. I HEARD YOU TRY AND TELL ME THAT BOY UP THERE IS… THAT OUR FATHER…"

Oh, dear heavens. He had known this was a possibility when he and Mrs. Barkley had spoken this morning. He hadn't really believed she'd recognized what he was and that after recognizing him she'd been so kind. He had hoped that she would want to keep this shame to herself. He knew now she had not. She had shared it with Nick.

He was surprised. She seemed such a proud woman. He was surprised she would let anyone know of her husband's betrayal. He tucked this surprise away to consider when he had more time. 

He could hear Nick again, "WELL I'M NOT CONVINCED… SOME WHORE IN SOME MINING TOWN FINDS FATHER'S LUCKY COIN, TELLS A FRIEND SHE'S SLEPT WITH TOM BARKLEY AND HER GET IS HIS BASTARD AND WE GIVE HIM THE RANCH." He smiled slightly to himself. No surprise there at any rate.

He turned up the lamp and saw his britches and shirt washed and neatly folded on the top of the bureau across the room, his rifle, bedroll and saddlebags against the wall near the door. Holding carefully to his stomach with one hand, he stood up, walked to the window and stood looking out. It was a beautiful night; gentle cool air blew in softly through the partially opened window. The stars were clear in the sky, now that the lamps in all of the out buildings had been extinguished.

He walked across the room a couple of times. Sure was a fancy room. The rug under his feet was so thick it felt like he was walking on moss. He'd just never seen such a place in his life. He wandered slowly around the room, picked up ornaments and studied pictures and marveled. He was so glad he'd had a chance to see all of this. He was very sorry that Mrs. Barkley had recognized him, that they all knew about him, but he thought they would forget, they would chose to forget, and he could remember for always.

Satisfied that he was strong enough to do what he needed, he carefully lay back down on the bed. His fever was nearly gone and the horrible pain of the hole in his side was much less. He would be fine to travel and it was past time to move on.

"AND WHAT IS THIS NEW BROTHER GOING TO DO? WORK ON THE RANCH? WITH ME?"

That brought a real smile to his lips. That was about the finest thing he could imagine to add to the Brother Game. He allowed himself to think about him and Nick riding out together in the early morning side by side. They would be branding. He would rope and while Gal held the rope, he would throw the calf and Nick would come up and place the brand, their brand, on that calf. Then Nick would say something… "Good job, boy." Yeah that's what he would say and Nick would maybe give him a pat on his back as he stood up to loose the calf and shake out his rope. He just lay there, pictured that moment, felt that pat on the back, saw the quick smile from Nick.

He was still playing the Brother Game when he heard them all pass his door on the way to their rooms. He closed his eyes in case Mrs. Barkley looked in the room, but it was late and she passed the door by. He knew there had been a lot of strong emotion down in that yelling, so he gave them an hour to settle and sleep before he rose and dressed. He checked the wound by the light of the lamp and thought it looked pretty good. It was still draining some puss but it wasn't near so angry looking. He wrapped the bandage good and tight and grabbed the two extra bandage rolls from beside the ewer of water.

Next to his clothes on the dresser were the contents of his pockets, his tobacco makings with his fish hook and string, eight bits, his knife and the matches carefully wrapped and the coin on its broken chain. He returned all of the stuff to his pockets and stood looking at the coin. 

He used to play with that coin when he was a boy. His mother used to hold the chain so the coin caught the light and would tell the father story and he would study it front and back. He rubbed his thumb over the engraving and then, coiling the chain in his hand, set it back down on the dresser, the coin whose glitter had led his mother to his father. He guessed it had been a lucky coin for Tom Barkley, had probably saved his life. He wondered, had it been a lucky coin for him? He guessed it was their coin and not his, their luck, not his. He guessed it was something else Tom Barkley had forgotten in Strawberry, but this they might want to keep.

He looked around the room one more time, wanted to make sure he remembered it clearly and then blew out the light, picked up his saddlebags, bedroll and rifle and eased the door open. 

***************

Gal was still turned out with the working remuda all of them hanging out not too far from the bunkhouse in anticipation of their morning grain. He walked out fifty yards into the pasture and whistled to her softly, then walked back to the saddle shed with Gal following him like a dog. He rewarded her with a feed of oats while he brushed her back and quickly checked her feet. 

Throwing the saddle on her back pained his stomach some and his ribs more, but he got it done and thought things were looking up. He grabbed an old sack and helped himself to a peck of oats for her and hung the bag from the saddle horn. He gave Gal a quick tap on the nose from where she tried to reach the oats, smiling at her sadly. He mounted up and turned her toward the trail. Time to get on with the rest of his life.

He rode steadily north not pushing Gal, letting her pick her own pace, as the sun started rising, he headed east toward the foothills. Noon found him out of the valley and gradually riding up hill toward the Sierras. He turned at the first stream running out of the mountains and rode slowly up hill until he came to a small stand of willow trees. 

He stopped there, unsaddled Gal and turned her out to graze while he gathered bark from the trees. Once he had a good-sized bundle, he started a small fire and heated a pot of water with some of the bark floating in it. The rest of the bark he put in his saddlebag. After the bark had boiled for a little while, he poured the liquid into his cup to cool, put out the fire and replaced his coffee pot in his saddlebag.

He lay in the shade of the willow trees, drank his bitter tea and rested. Once he saw Gal head over to the stream for a drink, he called her, brushed her back off and re-saddled her. He stood leaning on the saddle for a moment, looking around the little meadow. He was tired and wished he could stay and sleep in the sun for a while longer. He caught the mare looking around at him quizzically, gave her a quick scratch on her face, swung up into the saddle and headed her north again. He smiled at himself for feeling sad about leaving that fancy family, wasn't his anyway. Thinking it was funny the things a man could get to wanting.

He would just keep heading north on the edge of the foothills until he reached the River Pines Trail that would take him over Plymouth Pass and deep into the mountains. He needed to stay out of the mountains as long as he could, so there would be good grazing for Gal.

He rode for another few hours, taking advantage of the long daylight. Just as he was going to stop, he passed a band of brood mares. He rode in close and admired them. This was not a collection of wild scrub ponies. These were beautiful bloodstock, many of them heavy with foal, a few with youngsters already by their side. They were tame and let him ride right in amongst them. He dismounted, walked up to them admired them, shared little handfuls of Gal's oats with the old ladies that came right up to him. Barkley horses he could see from the brands, his brother's horses. He was again touched by that pride he had felt at the house. These were fine mares, going to produce some beautiful babies, and he told them so before mounting Gal and riding on.

He rode far enough that Gal wouldn't be tempted to wander off in the night and join up with the band and stopped to cook a rabbit he'd shot earlier in the day and drink some more of his bitter, willow bark tea. He cleaned and rewrapped his wound, satisfied that it still looked like it was healing. Once the rabbit was cooked, he remounted and rode for another hour, eating half the rabbit as he rode. He wondered as he ate the rabbit how many rabbits he'd eaten over the years. He thought maybe without him, the whole state would probably have been over run with rabbits by this time.

He rode up into the rocks and found a defensible place to spend the night. He worried the fever would cause him to sleep too deeply, make him vulnerable to anyone came into his camp. He made a dry camp, hid his rifle and gear in the rocks and kept just his bedroll and saddle by him. He tied Gal close to his bedroll and figured she would make enough noise if anyone came into the camp to wake him. He put some big rocks either side of the bedroll so if he moved in the night he would bump into them and he hoped, wake up. He couldn't afford to meet Dan in his dreams tonight. Then, exhausted, he lay down and fell instantly asleep.

Sunrise found him and Gal riding north, fifty miles from the Barkleys. His fever was nearly gone and the pain was much more manageable; he felt he was on the mend. If he could stay away from the Barkleys and their fights, he probably had a good chance to heal all the way this time. 

He made an easy morning, boiled more of the bark tea to go with his cold rabbit and then washed his shirt when he washed his wound and bandage. His snares had captured two rabbits in the night and he roasted both of them before he broke camp. He laughed at himself, not even one day and he was already tired of rabbit. When there was plenty of rabbit, who was he to want for something else?

He again stopped at noon to give Gal a couple hours of grazing while he lazed in the shade. He stopped early that evening, thought he'd made another thirty miles, good distance but nothing extraordinary. He favored himself and his horse, not going anywhere and in no hurry to get there.

Dan came visiting in the night and woke him with his calling while it was still full dark. He lay there for a while, remembering the dream and working hard not to remember the events that had spawned it five years ago. He'd rolled over on his rocks in the dark and figured the pain in his back had brought Dan to visit. He didn't really mind too much, hadn't been Dan, would have been some other nasty memory and Dan was at least a friend. Knowing he wouldn't sleep again, he rose and saddled Gal and got an early start on his day.

Just as the stars began to disappear, he smelled smoke and stopped Gal. He could hear a brook off to his east, loud with the spring runoff. A light breeze was falling down from the mountains and carrying the sweet smoke smell with it. 

He tied Gal to a big sage bush, grabbed his rifle and ghosted up the slight hill toward the smell. He'd only walked a couple hundred yards when he saw the glow of the fire in the darkness. He crept in carefully, keeping an eye out for their horses, didn't want to wake the camp. Once he got about hundred feet out, he could see one horse, he counted three men sleeping and a man sitting, bent over a fire, a rifle across his legs. Figured he must be the lookout. With the sound of the brook roaring down the mountain not twenty feet from the camp and the man looking directly into the fire, he figured, short of riding into the camp at a gallop, there was no way the man could either hear or see him. 

He looked at the tied up horse and recognized a paint horse from the fight at Sample's. He wasn't surprised, there had been over sixty riders there for the railroad and those riders would still be in the area looking for a quick dollar. Figured he'd just ridden up on four of them.

He slipped back away from the camp and went looking for the rest of their horses. He found a small meadow about a hundred yards to the south of the camp. He could see several horses in the beginning dawn light, hobbled and grazing along the edge of the trees. He slipped up to them carefully, not wanting to start them moving about and alert the fire blind guard. He counted six more horses, three of them unshod. He moved very carefully toward those unshod horses, suspected they would be spookier than the shod ones, less accustomed to people. He got close enough to see the brand on two of them, the Barkley brand. All three mares, one of them open and one looked like she would foal any moment.

He backed away slowly. Men rustling Barkley horses wasn't really any concern of his, he'd taken about as many lumps as he wanted to in the last couple of days for Barkleys. He'd just pass this Barkley problem right by.

He rode Gal slowly away from the camp and kept toward the River Pines Trail. He hit the trail before noon and turned east. The country along here was all open and grassy, still rising toward the foothills of the Sierras. He rode for another hour until he came to several steep hills not far from the trail. He turned Gal off the trail to the north and rode her a couple hundred yards toward the steepest hill before stopping her. He dismounted and walked back to the trail, erasing his tracks as he walked. Then he slowly walked back to Gal, watching for any missed sign. Satisfied no one would see where he had cut off the trail, he remounted and rode along another mile, beyond the steep hills before dismounting again. 

He unsaddled Gal and turned her out to graze. The hill was steep and he would be far enough away from her he didn't think she would come looking for him. He dumped his gear among some aspens, took his canteen and rifle and headed up the big hill. He didn't figure those men rustling Barkley horses were any concern of his, but he didn't want four rustlers to cut his trail and have a go at Gal. 

He took his time climbing, feeling weak and tired by the time he got to the top. He paused just below the brow, careful not to allow him self to be silhouetted against the bright blue sky and surveyed the trailside of the hill. The hill over looked the trail perhaps 250 yards distant. He saw several large rocks ahead, picked two in a good location and settled himself on the ground out of sight of anyone riding past. 

Two hours later and he was sorry he hadn't brought some of the rabbit up the hill with him. Two hours wasn't much of a wait. He guessed the longest he'd ever waited had been the eight hours outside Vicksburg. Had been different though. This was a lovely day, sort of a perfect temperature to sit in the shade of a big rock, very little wind and a beautiful bright sun. 

That day had been cold and wet. Of course, he had been cold and wet for so long by that March morning, it hadn't seemed anything special. Just another cold wet day in Tennessee. Had been glad to see the morning light even if no sun shone after sitting in the cold rain for six hours, waiting for that light, then another two hours waiting for his target. He shifted his position, irritated at the direction his thoughts had taken. Funny, he would go months, no dreams, no memories and then something would set off one or the other and it would seem like all he could think about, all he could dream about would be the war and its aftermath.

He started playing the Brother Game to take his mind off Tennessee and long waits on wet nights. If he had a brother with him right now, what would they be doing? He guessed one of them would be up here keeping watch and the other would be down the trail a little ways on the same side of the road so they didn't get in each other's line of fire. Because if he had his brother with him now, it would be Nick and they would be tracking those stolen Barkley mares. 

He liked that he could put a face to a brother. That he could picture the man further down the road waiting with him to stop the thieves. They could have brought Jarrod with them too. He would be back in the meadow watching the horses, watching their backs, making sure no one snuck up behind their position. Jarrod would maybe bring them some scrambled eggs like Silas made, or maybe some orange juice. He tasted that orange juice again and smiled, boy howdy, that juice had been the best thing he ever tasted.

An hour later he saw the four riders, recognized the paint horse before he could even clearly differentiate the number of riders. He wondered why a man, running on the shady side of the law, would ride a horse that men would remember long after the man's face was forgotten, just stupid that. He studied the horse as he came closer, but didn't see anything special to make him worth the danger he represented. Guessed the man just liked a showy horse.

They were leading the three unshod Barkley mares and traveling at a quick canter. That got his attention. No reason to be going down the trail at that speed unless they were running away or chasing something. Since nothing had passed in almost four hours, he figured they had something behind them.

He wasn't surprised to see them pull off the trail into the woods opposite his den. This was the first rough ground along the trail and the first likely place for men anxious to watch their back trail to stop. One of the riders rode off with the horses into the woods and the other three men disappeared into the rocks near the trail below him. He marked where each man had gone and then watched for the fourth man to come back out of the woods. The man appeared about ten minutes later and joined his companions.

He watched the men set up their ambush and pondered what he should do. He didn't know that those three mares were stolen. He knew the pinto had been at Sample's, but he had no way to know if Nick knew that, and if even knowing that he might not have sold them the mares anyway. 

He thought they were stolen though. They were rough-coated, unshed winter hair mixed in their coats. Their feet were chipped and as rough as their coats. They were clearly fresh in off the range. He didn't believe a place as fancy as Barkley's would sell such nice mares looking so rough. They would want to clean them up and have them looking good when they sold them. He also didn't think Nick Barkley would be selling a mare about to foal to four men on the move. Didn't make sense. These looked like young brood mares and fancy ones at that. He just couldn't figure what four hired guns would want with three brood mares, except they had come across the same band of mares he'd seen and helped themselves to three of them.

But he didn't know the horses were stolen and he didn't know the men were setting up an ambush. But he also didn't know that the sun was going to rise tomorrow. So what did he do when these men drew down on whoever was coming down the trail? Whoever they had been riding fast to get ahead of so they could ambush them?

He didn't want to sit up here in these rocks and shoot at men from hiding. He had vowed he wouldn't do that again and here he was. He wondered was he just naturally the kind of man who shot other men from hiding? Or did three years of war make him find places like this where he could hide and kill men without them seeing him? 

He didn't have much time to worry on that before he saw the dust down the trail. The amount of dust told him lone rider, certainly no more then two, before he could see the single horseman, a tall man on a big gelding. 

Hadn't any more then noted the quality of the gelding before he recognized his brother, Nick. He couldn't believe it. Didn't seem any of these Barkleys had a lick of sense. Here was this man, chasing four horse thieves, and him riding down the middle of the trail. Not paying any more attention than his bird witted sister riding into Stockton in the middle of a Saturday night, or his lawyer brother standing out in the front of those farmers trying to get shot at Sample's. He wondered how these folks had all lived long enough to reach adulthood.

************  
He took up a small handful of dust and let it fall from his fingers. Looked like a wind just south of east, blowing maybe 5 miles an hour. He dropped another handful and judged it the same. He watched the dust settle behind Nick's horse and thought the wind looked about the same down on the trail, the easterliness of it meant it was blowing from his left straight down the trail. He had a clear shot at the two men on his side of the trail, the two on the other side obscured by the rocks they had hidden behind. Two of the men had rifles, the other two had drawn handguns.

He didn't want to shoot those two men with his rifle from ambush. He hoped they would just stop Nick, steal his horse and not shoot him. He rested his rifle on the rock in front of him and kept his eye on the two men with rifles. If anyone was going to shoot from ambush, it would be the rifles.

They didn't. Just as Nick rode between the four men, one of them jumped out in front of his horse, threw up his arms and spooked the horse back. Two of the other men stood at the same time, forestalling any action on Nick's part by their numbers. Good plan. He kept his eye on the fourth man, the man hidden with his rifle pointed at Nick's back.

He was too far away to hear what was said but he didn't need to hear to know what was coming. He knew this brother well enough by now to know the general shape of what was going to happen.

About a minute into the conversation, Nick spurred his horse into the two men on the opposite side of the trail, threw himself from the saddle just as the horse jumped forward. The horse knocked one of the men down and Nick shot at the other, driving him to cover. When the fourth man, the one covering the other three with his rifle, stood to shoot Nick in the back, Heath shot him in the shoulder. Then he pulled his rifle to the left and shot the second man who stepped past Nick's horse, rifle raised and pointed at Nick. Nick'd shot the man his horse hadn't hit by this time. The man the horse had run into was now on his feet with his handgun pointed directly at Nick. 

Heath didn't have time for a good shot and just had to shoot the man in the chest, killing him. He held his position, watched the first two men he'd shot. One was hit in the shoulder, the second one in the leg. They were both down and didn't look like getting up, but he knew he hadn't killed them and would cover them until Nick got things sorted. He watched his brother stand up, unharmed, and move to each of the men, kicking their guns out of reach carefully, staying out of his line of fire. 

This was just as it should be, he almost smiled. If he hadn't had to kill that man, this would have been perfect, brothers covering for each other. He felt righteous just as he had in Stockton and at Sample's. He wondered could he just follow these siblings around for the rest of his life, pulling their bacon out of the fire. Sure looked like they needed someone just to do that. 

Once Nick had cleared the guns, he stood up slowly and stepped from behind the rocks, holding his rifle away from his body, so Nick could see he wasn't in a position to fire. He waited until he was sure Nick had seen. He knew Nick would be jumpy after the ambush and gave him a chance to get a good look before moving. Always wanted to let friendly troops identify a sharpshooter as not a threat before moving too close. Once he was sure Nick had him, he slowly made his way down the slope and walked over toward him.

"Afternoon," he said, "small world, ain't it."

"AFTERNOON? HOW DO YOU COME TO BE UP THERE? Not that I'm not happy you were." Nick picked his hat up from the side of the trail and beat the dust off against his leg before returning it to his head. This sounded a lot like a "what are you doing here, boy" question and he was tempted to let it slide with no answer. He reloaded his rifle while he thought on the question. Maybe it just sounded like a "you don't belong here" question because Nick was upset, being ambushed and all.

"Watching my back trail."

"Thanks. Nice shooting." He saw Nick look up the slope, judge the range and gave a slight shrug. Hadn't been anything special, hardly any wind, clear targets. The down hill made it a little tricky to judge the angle but nothing special and plenty of time to set up the shot, except that last one. He glanced over at the dead man and sighed. He was sorry about that killing shot, taken from hiding.

"Nice job tracking." He was really impressed that Nick had been able to trail those three brood mares all that way. Even more amazed he'd realized they were stolen in the first place, them running in a herd a good thirty miles from the ranch buildings.

"Wasn't really tracking you, just figured you'd head for Plymouth Pass or Truckee," Nick said, giving a small shrug at the praise.

He didn't say anything thinking on that. Nick'd been tracking him. Had Nick thought he'd stolen the mares? He glanced up at his brother. He didn't look angry. Didn't look like a man who'd just caught someone he thought had stolen his horses. 

He walked over to the man he'd shot in the shoulder and checked the wound. The man was conscious and didn't look too happy. The bullet hadn't gone through, not surprising at that range. He took the man's bandana off his neck, stuck it in the wound and then gave him a small drink from his canteen. He helped him lean back against one of the rocks. The other man's leg wound had gone clean through the thigh. Didn't look too bad at all. Man didn't have a bandana so he took the man's belt and wrapped it around the wound twice and buckled it. That would keep pressure on the bleeding until he could get something better. 

Nick's man was dead, shot twice in the chest and probably dead before he hit the ground. He didn't bother to look at his chest shot, he'd known the man was dead as soon as he pulled the trigger, and didn't need to see any more men he'd killed.

Having thought on Nick's remarks, he turned back to him. Nick was standing in the trail, having caught his horse and was checking him for any injury.

"I didn't take your horses." He figured best to be straight and avoid any more confusion, any more hurt.

"WHAT? WHAT HORSES?"

Nick hadn't thought he'd stolen his horses. Heath smiled at him, a quick half smile. He was glad Nick didn't think he was a horse thief. Nick didn't think much of him, but he didn't want him to think he was a horse thief on top of everything else. Maybe some day Nick would think back on him, play his own version of what if, his own version of the Brother Game. When he did, he didn't want him to wonder, was his maybe brother a horse thief.

"Brood mares," he told him. 

"WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" Nick stood in the road, glowering at him, getting angry now. He didn't say anything, thinking on this some, trying to get straight what was happening. What was Nick doing here, if he wasn't chasing those three brood mares?

Nick couldn't hardly help himself from talking. He'd give Nick time, he'd talk his way around to what he was doing here.

"I'll get their horses." He left his brother; he surely did love the sound of that even if Nick didn't. He left his brother standing in the middle of the road, his hands on his hips, looking down his nose at Heath and the four ambushers and walked off to the southeast where he'd seen the man ride with the seven horses. He found the horses a hundred and fifty yards off the trail, tied up to some aspens. 

He mounted the pinto and led the other six horses back toward the road. He wanted to just try riding the pinto. See if there was maybe something special he hadn't been able to see watching the horse, make that funny color worthwhile. Certainly couldn't feel anything on the short ride to the road, but wasn't sure he would have. The brood mares didn't like leading, all those horses pulling was hurting his stomach so much he figured that pinto would need to be Pegasus to feel anything special.

Nick was still standing in the road glaring at him when he rode back. The sight of his brood mares just seemed to confuse him even more. "WHERE DID THEY COME FROM?"

Since it was apparent to an idiot where the horses had come from, he didn't say anything, slipped off the pinto and examined him up close. He had a nice slope to his shoulder and was clean limbed, albeit a bit cow hocked. Maybe he was faster than he looked. A man on the wrong side of the law would want a fast horse for sure, might forgive a funny color was the horse fast enough.

"I ASKED YOU A QUESTION, BOY. WHERE DID THOSE MARES COME FROM?"

Heath looked at him, now really confused. Had he misread this whole thing? Well certainly not the ambush. He'd had that right. Surely, Nick recognized his own brand. Heath looked and could see the brands clearly so Nick must know they were his mares. He'd seen him ride out of the woods leading them, so he knew where they'd been. He figured he'd wait on Nick to explain a bit more, couldn't make any sense out of that question at all. 

"I got to get my mare," he told him. He walked over to Leg Wound and tossed him a shirt from one of the saddlebags. Let the man wrap his leg up some before they rode. Then he took the pinto and headed around the hill to where he'd left Gal. He heeled the pinto hard and put him into a strong gallop over the smooth ground. By the time he got to where he'd left his saddle he decided he wouldn't take the pinto as a gift even if he were a good color. Horse was slow, gaits weren't great and he was no more then indifferently broke. Was a pleasure to get back on Gal and lead the pinto back around the hill.

Nick was still standing in the middle of the road, examining the mares like he'd never seen them before. Heath wondered, were his brothers and sister a little slow on the up take? Did having all that money and all those people working for you, waiting on you, making you fancy breakfasts, make you a bit slow-witted?

He led the pinto over to the man with the hole in his shoulder. Going to need to get that man to a doctor, get that cleaned up. He handed the man one rein, took out his knife, cut the other rein off just at the bit and unbuckled the throatlatch on the bridle. The man was already struggling to his feet didn't look too bad off. The man talked at him a bit, about his pain and his life and his troubles while Heath helped him on to the horse.

Leg Wound was standing up on his own so Heath brought him a horse as well, removed the rifle from the scabbard before relinquishing the horse, again cut one rein off at the bit and unbuckled the throat latch. A man might stop a horse very carefully with one rein and no throatlatch, but he would have a hard time turning a horse away from its mates with the bridle held on with a wish and a prayer and only one rein. 

He'd always found that no steering pretty much kept a man from much chance of making a successful break for it. Hadn't always kept them from trying, but so far he'd never had one succeed. This man just watched him ready the horse and accepted a hand up. Didn't have much to say. Since the other outlaw was still talking, he probably didn't feel like he needed to say anything. Other man had so many excuses for trying to kill Nick and for having those three mares stashed in the woods, hardly seemed worth taking him to the law.

He could hear Nick talking at him, raising his voice to be heard over Shoulder Wound as Heath got the horses sorted out and the wounded men mounted. He was still worrying on where the brood mares had come from and what was Heath doing in the rocks.

"I'll need help," Heath told him, nodding toward the two dead men.

"HAVEN'T YOU HEARD A THING I'VE ASKED YOU?"

"Well yes, Nick, I have. Hard to miss it, you yelling in my ear." He figured that would keep Nick talking for a while. He enjoyed listening to this brother talk. Boy howdy, this man could talk. He guessed those Barkleys had some special kind of talking thing in them. He'd never heard folks could talk so long and so thoroughly as his two brothers and sister. It pleased him no end to listen. Didn't know how sensible they were, but they could talk.

Nick came over, picked the men up effortlessly and threw them across the saddles as Heath held the horses for him. He'd always known that his brother was going to be a big man and strong. No point in imagining a big brother if he isn't big enough and strong enough to watch out for you. Nick sure didn't disappoint. Heath rigged the two horses with the dead riders so one horse was tied to the other horse’s saddle and then tied the bodies to the saddles. Sure seemed a shame those men dead for three horses they didn't need, alive half an hour ago and now dead for nothing. 

He stopped for a moment, tuned Nick's talking out of his head while he said a quick prayer to the Lord to watch out for those dead men's souls if he could. Figured men who stole horses and robbed strangers on the road would need a good word spoken for them, if they were to have any chance in the next life. He didn't want to yammer on at the Lord too hard on their account though, as he suspected they might have quite a bit to answer for he didn't know about. He'd just let the Lord know he held no grudge on their actions today, no harm being done.

Nick had moved on to talk about how these four men must have stolen the brood mares and been going to sell them. He talked about recognizing the pinto from Sample's. He gave Nick another half smile to encourage him. Sounded like he was beginning to figure it all out.

"Jackson's probably closest?" he asked Nick. Nick, being from around here would probably know was anywhere closer with a sheriff and a doctor. The man with the shoulder wound wasn't looking too chipper and he wondered, should he have tried to bandage it better before they rode.

"Yeah, Jackson’s maybe five hours ride." He was aware of Nick examining Shoulder Wound as well. "Maybe six with these two and the mares."

"Won't make it today." Trying to lead those mares and keep track of their prisoners in the dark would be asking for trouble. Better to stop for the night and go in the morning. He gathered up the reins on the two horses with the dead bodies and handed them to Leg Wound, who took them without comment. He nodded down the road to get Leg Wound moving. 

Took a few minutes for all the horses to sort themselves out where they wanted to travel in the group but after about half a mile, things were moving pretty good. He was pleased Nick was riding with him to Jackson. He'd been afraid Nick might just head home with his mares, leave him to try and explain horse thievery with no stolen horses to show. Nick didn't seem so angry as he had back at the house. Getting the horses back that Nick hadn't known were stolen had maybe cheered him some, or maybe it was finding him on the road riding away.

He liked that after that first little bit of sorting riders and horses, Nick dropped back to ride beside him at the back of their band, watching the two thieves in front. That's the way he figured two brothers would ride, side by side. Nick had taken two of the mares and he had the other on a lead rope around her neck. She was leading a bit better now she wasn't mixed with all the other horses, not pulling back so hard, just following Gal on a loose line.

"So, how did you come to be sitting in those rocks shooting ambushers?"

"Saw them this morning, camped. Didn't want them riding behind me," he explained more fully to Nick.

He wondered what Nick was doing on the way to Plymouth Pass if he wasn't chasing horse thieves, but decided it was none of his business. He'd learned a long time ago, a man went through life not knowing a lot of things he wondered about. 

"Wondered. Was surprised to see you there. I think you saved my life."

Figured he probably had. Figured that made all three he'd saved in three days. He wondered again what the Barkleys normally did for life saving before he'd come around.


	5. Chapter 5

They rode in silence, for a wonder Nick out of words. He thought on the handguns they had stashed in the saddlebag on one of the horses carrying a dead horse thief. Could he get the sheriff in Jackson to let him have one of those rigs? The horses and saddles should cover the burying on the two dead cowboys and then some, and he sure would admire having a side arm again. The one gun was a nice Colt. The sight had been ground down, which he didn't mind, would have done it any way. The gun looked new and well cared for, the rig was clean, not showy, good leather. He guessed it didn't belong to the man who owned the paint horse.

Nick interrupted his meditation on gun rigs by saying, "I was looking for you."

He looked at Nick, surprised by this bit of information. What he'd heard back at the ranch, the last thing he thought would be Nick looking for him. He waited to see what else Nick had to say on that.

"My mother, Jarrod…" Nick stopped talking and looked away from him, messed with the lead lines on the two brood mares for no reason he could see. 

He waited. Nick had something to say, he'd get to it in time. 

"My mother and Jarrod think you’re my father's son." Nick studied the backs of the two men ahead of them intently as he spoke, the words seemed to be intended more for the horse thieves than for Heath, though spoken so softly they would never hear them.

Mrs. Barkley, that day in the bedroom when they had spoken, she'd known. He replayed that conversation in his head again. That had been a good few minutes. He'd felt bad at first. He must have made her very sad. Then she had seemed so happy. He'd wondered at that then and was still surprised about it, but pleased she wasn't sad that he had come.

Jarrod surprised him. He'd not exchanged more then five or six words with Jarrod. Was a funny thing for the man to decide on the basis of that small an acquaintance, that they were brothers.

"BOY, DON'T YOU EVER SAY ANYTHING?" Nick was looking at him now, glowering at him, angry again and ready to fight. He played the last few minutes back, made sure he hadn't missed some part of the conversation while he was thinking. He decided he better say something before Nick punched him.

"Yeah."

"YEAH? YEAH YOU ARE MY BROTHER, OR YEAH YOU NEVER SAY ANYTHING?"

"Your mother. We spoke." He thought on how he wanted to go on with this. He didn't really want to get into the whole Tom Barkley thing. He was pleased to have met his family but he was leaving now. He would like to leave without another fight with Nick if he could. Nick was so angry, he wasn't sure he could say anything wouldn't set him off again to punching and hitting.

"Are you my father's son?" Nick looked at him this time as he asked the question. 

He didn't want to make this brother unhappy. He'd gotten what he came to the ranch to get. He'd seen his brothers and sister. He'd seen the life his father'd chosen to live after giving life to him. He'd never meant to hurt any of them or to mess with that life of his father's. He'd just wanted to see it, to know. All those years of wondering about the man who'd given him life, he'd just wanted to know. Now he did. More than that, he had memories of a sister and two brothers to carry with him the rest of his life, a face for a brother who, in his imaginings, had always been faceless. 

He'd thought he could get all those things without being seen. He still wondered how they had come to see him. His whole life lived on the edge of other people's lives, him the nearly invisible sin women moved their skirts to avoid and men struck to get out of their paths. How had these Barkleys seen him?

"Nick, I'm riding away from here. I'll never see you again." he played with the bight of the lead rope in his hand, not looking at Nick as he spoke.

They rode in silence for another mile while he unraveled the end of that rope and then wove it back together again.

"I guess I want to know the answer to that question, whether I see you again or not."

He gave Nick a quick glance without moving his head and found the other man looking directly at him. He went back to studying on the end of that rope while he thought.

"Yeah. Tom Barkley's my father." He steeled himself for what would come, punches, yelling. He was surprised by silence that lasted for the rest of the time they rode. 

He kept his attention on his horse and that piece of rope until he finally decided they could stop for the night. They came to a little stream, looked like seasonal run off from some vernal pond further up in the hills, but would do for the horses. He rode up beside Leg Wound who'd been riding and talking beside his pal and told them to pull off the trail near a couple of old cottonwoods that would provide fire wood without too much effort.

The two thieves didn't have much to say to them, and Nick remained silent. It wasn't an angry stillness and the work of setting up camp went smoothly. Were a lot of horses to see to but he just pulled saddles and dropped them where they fell. He hated to treat good gear that way, but figured someone wanted them, they could clean them up tomorrow in Jackson. He and Nick tried to treat the two dead men as well as they could, but they already had an odor to them so they left them a couple hundred yards down wind of the camp. 

The two thieves didn't look like they were going anywhere fast, so Heath dragged a couple saddles over for them and left them sit. He hobbled the four new saddle horses and the mares and turned his mare out loose with them. The brood mares were maybe close enough to their home range to have a go at heading home and he didn't want to lose them. Nick took care of his horse and then went to work on a fire and he hoped, dinner. 

He considered offering his last cooked rabbit to the communal pot and then didn't want the Barkleys knowing he lived on water and rabbit and surreptitiously tossed the body into the brush when he unsaddled Gal.

Once the horses were seen to, he looked at the wounds on their two captives, washed them both out and cut one of his two spare bandages in half to give them both a better job of doctoring. Then, feeling self-conscious, he wandered away from the camp with his canteen and clean bandage to see to his own hurts. He was pleased to see a good scab all around his wound and most of the heat gone from it. He'd skip the awful willow tea tonight.

Nick had a big pot of beans cooking and a poke with cold biscuits and ham. Heath went through the outlaw's saddlebags and found their cups and plates and delivered dinner to the two thieves. He'd keep an eye on Leg Wound. Didn't think the man could get too far with that leg, but he knew the man had nothing to lose from trying and everything lost if he got into Jackson and was tried for a horse thief. Shoulder Wound was yammering away again with his excuses, he figured that idiot thought he could talk his way out of hanging and probably wouldn't be so eager to try his luck against him and Nick.

He took a plate from Nick and enjoyed the hot beans and ham and the coffee. Rabbit was fine when a man was really hungry, but it was hard to get much better than a good piece of ham. He sat back against his saddle when the eating was done and enjoyed his coffee, thought how nice it had been sharing the camp duties, neither of them saying much but both doing a share. 

Nick offered him a second cup, poured it for him. He smiled at him in thanks. That had been very fine. He watched how Nick poured the coffee, careful not to spill any on his hand, offered him more maybe because he was his brother, but not to the thieves because they weren't. He would remember that little bit there for later, the sharing and the coffee. 

Then of a sudden Nick began to talk again. Not on brothers and familes and dead fathers but about the three brood mares. Where he'd gotten them from, what their breeding was and who they were bred to. He talked about the stallions they had been bred to. Where they had come from, what they were like and what their get were like. Heath sat and drank his last cup of coffee and listened, stored the words away. Enjoyed hearing Nick talk, not angry, just talking about the ranch and the horses. Sit by the fire, drink a cup of coffee listen to his brother talk about his ranch, he smiled to himself held it all close.

After a while, even Nick ran out of words and they sat in silence and watched the stars appear one by one. Finally, he stood and collected the plates and took them to the stream to wash. He helped Leg Wound and Shoulder Wound away from the camp one at a time to do their business and got them settled for the night in the bedrolls Nick had spread out.

"I'll take the first watch," he told him and spread his own bedroll near where the fire had burned. He got his rifle and wandered away from the camp to lean against one of the cottonwood trees where he could hear and see the camp without being in it. He sat and thought and watched, satisfied to sit the night through, made no move to wake Nick as the hours passed, having a lot to think on in the dark.

Sometime after the biggest part of the night, Nick woke and came over. "You never woke me?"

"No need, wasn't tired."

"Well, get some sleep, I'll watch."

He gave Nick a smile he knew the other man couldn't see and headed to the bedroll. Now the watching was over he was tired, worn out with all the thinking and sitting, nice to have a brother to take part of the watch.

He knew when he woke with Nick leaning over him he should have been more careful. He'd forgotten about his rocks and he knew some demon had been to see him in the night. "Hey boy, you okay? Wake up." He could feel the perspiration on his face and the wet shirt on his back, the shaking and the fear all over him. The stars were gone, so not long to morning, but still dark so he couldn't see the condemnation on Nick's face. He pushed Nick's hands away and got up as quick as his ribs would allow.

"I'm good. I'm ok." He walked away from his humiliation, so angry, so stupid. He knew better, after the fight on the road the demons were sure to come. A few rocks under his blankets or just stay awake. Why was he so stupid? The dinner had been so good and the coffee and he had ruined it with his moaning and crying and being the child. He stopped twenty feet from the camp and just stood, looked up at the darkness and waited to catch his breath, waited for the shakes to stop.

"It's okay, boy, we all got demons." He'd been so busy feeling sorry for himself he hadn't even heard Nick walk up. He closed his eyes and hung his head for a moment. 

"Stupid, sorry."

"When I got home from the war… well, for a few months I almost shouted the house down in the night."

"Yeah, well, five years later and I'm still shouting." The self-loathing almost over whelmed him.

"You were young for a soldier."

"Young and stupid, not much has changed, just not so young." He turned toward Nick, but he couldn't look up played with the sleeve of his shirt, worried that button as if all the answers were in that bit of thread.

"Yeah, young and stupid helps, if you're going to be a soldier." Nick put his hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze.

He looked up at him, grateful not to hear the condemnation, the disgust he had expected. As he looked, up he caught the movement behind Nick in the early morning light. He pushed Nick hard, sent him over backward just as the shot sounded in the still morning.

*************

He rolled hard to his left and up on to his knee to get off Nick, to free Nick to get to his handgun if he was able. As he rolled, he grabbed a piece of the cottonwood littered all about the ground and threw it as he came up. He saw Leg Wound turning toward him as he came up and threw. He watched the gun come around in the weak morning light, watched the sights line up. He really wished he'd not had to trade his handgun in for that wood plane in Pinecrest. He was thankful to hear Nick's gun fire just as the sights of that other gun lined up on his chest.

As soon as he realized he wasn't going to die, he wrapped his arms around his sore ribs and let his head fall to his chest. He slowly lay down on the ground on his back, his arms still around his middle and closed his eyes.

"Heath, Heath, are you okay? MY GOD BOY. Heath, you okay?" Nick was all over him, his hands on his shoulders, lifting him up bending his sore middle.

"You saved my life," he said to Nick, the wonder of that moment clear in his voice, in the small smile on his face.

"I SAVED YOUR LIFE. YOU IDIOT. WHAT HAPPENED TO DUCKING? DID YOU REALLY THROW A LOG AT HIM? Are you okay?" Nick was holding him up supporting him with an arm around his shoulders, this big brother who had saved his life.

He laughed. It hurt his ribs but he couldn't help himself, he laughed. "Don't have a side arm."

Nick joined in his laughter, the two of them sat there, laughing at cowboys without side arms and not being dead on a beautiful morning. Nick's arm supporting him, forgotten as the two laughed at the absurdity of not being dead.

"You’re okay then?"

"Yeah, just sore ribs." He pulled away from Nick and started to get his feet organized for standing up.

Nick moving faster with his not sore ribs, got to his feet and offered him a hand up, grabbed under his elbow and supplied the lift he needed. "Thanks."

"You’re welcome."

They walked over and looked at Leg Wound. He was dead. Shot in the chest. Nick liked the chest shot, nothing wrong with that. Shoulder Wound wisely remained silent.

"I'm thinking, I'm just going to take one of these gun rigs," he said to Nick. After the fright he'd just gotten, his brother nearly killed, he'd better get himself a handgun.

"Yeah. I think you better." He couldn't see that well in the early light but he thought Nick was smiling at him. On the chance that Nick was, he smiled back.

They had the last of the ham and stale biscuits for breakfast and spent almost an hour sorting out horses and bodies before they got going to Jackson. The rest of the trip passed easily, mostly with Nick reminiscing about previous trips to Jackson and up toward Truckee. Heath rode in silence, listened to Nick and enjoyed the morning.

Nick knew the sheriff in Jackson and their business with him passed without mishap. Shoulder Wound was locked up and the rest of the bodies passed on to their final rest. The sheriff expressed no concern about Heath's appropriation of the revolver. An hour after their arrival in town, they had the three mares turned out in a corral at the livery and were eating lunch at the saloon, each with a cold beer at hand.

"We'll have to come back and testify in a week or so when the circuit judge comes through," Nick said into the silence that followed the two of them wolfing down a mediocre beef stew like they hadn't eaten in a year. Nothing like nearly dying to make you appreciate stew. Nick had pushed back his chair and was concentrating on his beer.

"Way I see it, we got two choices here. We can stay the night and ride all day tomorrow and the next day and get home around dark. Or we can start now and sleep on the trail, be home the next night." Nick looked at him quizzically.

This struck Heath as an absurd reduction in the number of choices they had and he sat silent, studied his empty dish.

"I'd normally opt for sleeping in the hotel and getting an early start. But I know Mother, Audra and Jarrod are very anxious for us to get home. So I think we should start now." 

Heath looked up at the soft tone of Nick's voice.

"Come on, boy. It's time to go home."

He closed his eyes for a moment, lost in a sea of emotion. In those few moments, eyes closed, he could see a life, a life as a Barkley with brothers and a sister and a home, a life of such endless possibilities and hope, a dream of brothers, of family. Then he opened his eyes and smiled at Nick with such gratitude he could hardly speak.

"Thanks, Nick."

"Well, that's settled. Let’s get going."

He shook his head gently. Nick lived in such a simple world of want and have, decide and do.

"I can't, Nick. But I thank you for the offer."

"What do you mean you can't? NOW HOLD ON a minute here." Nick brought his voice under control with a noticeable effort. He leaned forward toward him as if to make up for his lack of volume by proximity. "I admit I didn't believe you were my brother at first. I just didn't think my father could have… well, I just didn't think it was possible." Nick stopped again. "But, well after the last day… and… well, I think you’re my brother, I believe it." Nick sat back, satisfaction evident in both his face and his whole way of holding his body. Nick was satisfied.

He smiled at him gently. "Nick, it doesn't matter what you believe. I'm not going back with you."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN? WHY NOT?" Nick flew forward in his chair again, clearly exercising some considerable self-control in not reaching out with his hands to grab and shake him. "OF COURSE YOU’RE COMING HOME!"

"Think, Nick. What happens after I get to your home?"

"Well, we have dinner. You move back into your room. We work the ranch together. You’re a Barkley. It's what Mother said: You’re entitled to your share of Father's legacy." Nick smiled at him encouragingly.

"It’s a nice dream, Nick, but I'm not your brother. I'm your father's bastard." He was again reminded of how naïve all of these Barkleys appeared to be, naïve about the danger in the world and about what moving through it not a Barkley required.

"NO. You’re my brother, and don't use that word."

"What happens when your mother goes to town or your sister's friends won't speak to her? How will you feel about your long lost brother when someone turns their back on Audra and walks away without saying hello? Snatches their skirt away lest it brush against your mother's because she welcomed a bastard into her home?" He stood up, suddenly angry with these foolish, dreaming Barkleys and threw two bits down to cover his lunch. 

He leaned forward toward Nick and rested his hands on the table. "Don't be a fool. I'm not the prodigal son coming home. I'm the sin of the father given flesh." Then remembering himself and what anger cost, he gave Nick a small smile. It had been so generous of this brother to offer his home, his family, his dream. He nodded at Nick and walked out of the saloon. Nick was impetuous, obviously, but he wasn't a fool. He would think. He would realize.

He stopped in the general store and bought a small bag of coffee beans. He'd missed that on the trail but his remaining coins wouldn't stretch to a very large bag. He bought a box of shells for the new handgun. He would need to spend a little time shooting to make sure he understood the weapon and could use it easily. It would take at least one box of shells before he was really comfortable with it. He wished he had enough cash for a second box but it was coffee or shells and weak soul that he was, he went with the coffee.

He wasn't really surprised to find Nick standing outside the livery, holding their two horses, saddled and ready to ride. Nick wouldn't give up without more talk. "We'll have to catch the mares," Nick said when he walked up to him.

He took Gal's reins and nodded his thanks. He walked over to the saddlebag, dropped the shells and beans in the bag and tied it shut again. His best plan was still River Pines or at least a nice meadow on the way to there. A place Gal could find enough grass and he could find enough rabbits, happily the two usually went together.

He stepped carefully into the saddle, still mindful of his ribs, not feeling any improved after the previous night's rolling on the ground. Gal remained rooted, Nick's hand on her bridle. 

"I'm not sure how to argue with someone who doesn't speak," Nick said. "I guess all I can do is not let go."

"I spoke," he said. "I explained. Didn't you listen?"

"Yeah. I heard you. I don't agree."

He looked at Nick and replayed the conversation in the saloon in his head. There was nothing he'd said that wasn't true and obvious. There was nothing said to disagree with. He hoped he wasn't going to have to fight this man again. Would Nick really beat him senseless and drag him back to Stockton slung over the back of his horse? 

"Let her go, Nick."

"No. I rode most of a hundred miles to find you. I want you to come back to Stockton with me. Come back and speak to my mother and brother. If you don't want to stay then, go. But come back. Talk to them."

This was the closest he'd ever seen Nick come to asking another person for something. Not demanding it as his right or ordering it because he wanted it so, but asking as if the other person had a choice. He didn't know what was right to do here.

"Look, I need help getting these mares back. My mother asked me to find you. I'm asking, Heath. Come back and speak to her. Please." 

He knew that last bit had hurt. Nick wasn't a man who asked easily and he had asked there, twice. He nodded to him. He'd go back. He didn't think it was wise but he couldn't see how he could say no to Nick asking. Nick let go of the reins and turned to his own horse. While Nick was mounting, he rode around to the back of the livery to catch the mares. They soon had the three horses roped and were on the trail by shortly after the noon hour. 

With only the mares to lead and no wounded outlaws to worry on, they were able to move at a slow, ground-covering jog. The three mares were much more trail broke after three days of riding and readily followed the saddle horses. They were also getting distinctly foot sore, being unshod and unaccustomed to traveling such long distances. He figured they would be lucky to get in twenty miles before the mares started going lame on them.

The winter rains were now well past and the perfect weather of spring made the afternoon a delight, bright sun, a cool breeze and a perfect clear sky. He settled in the saddle and let his mind wander as his eyes scanned the passing country and Gal covered the miles.

He hadn't thought long on why Mrs. Barkley could possibly want to see him so much that she'd sent Nick all the way to River Pines to find him when Nick started in talking again. He was back on the many reasons why Heath should live with the family in Stockton. He listened, half amused and half amazed, as Nick revealed his simple worldview in his plans for Heath's future. He guessed maybe the man had never met a bastard before, was the only explanation he could come up with.

"You’re worrying about nothing. My mother and Audra really want you to come back to the ranch. They want you to live there. If my father were still alive, he'd want you there as well. It’s where you belong." At this last, patently untrue, statement, Nick threw his hand wide to include, he guessed, all of California or at least all the Central Valley as the place Heath belonged. 

The gesture was too much for one of the young mares and she took exception, backed away and half reared. This so confused the other mare jogging next to her that she stopped as well. The two of them stopping at the same time was enough to almost pull Nick out of the saddle. Happily, when Nick's horse felt him falling backwards, the good old gelding put the brakes on and saved Nick the ignominy of falling off a nearly walking horse.

He smiled at that. Nick caught his eye and had the good grace to laugh at himself. Then still chuckling softly, he gave the two horses a gentle pull on their lead ropes and their cavalcade started back down the road. He decided that good-natured laugh deserved an answer.

"Nick, you don’t know how folks react to a bastard. Just because your family decides they want me living there isn't going to make an end to the facts of my parentage." He had another go at explaining life to his older brother. He guessed all these Barkleys just thought the world would change to be the way they wanted. All they had to do was want and it was so. Strange way of looking at the world. He wondered how much money you had to have before everything looked so possible; the world looked so easy to you.

"My family wants you living there and we don't care what the rest of Stockton thinks about it." Nick glowered at him and he could only give him a half smile in return. He had no way to explain reality to this man who had lived all of his life protected from the real world by his wealth and his family. He wondered, did the Barkleys have enough money and prestige to protect them from the reality of Heath Thomson? Could he be wrong? Could the Barkley world really be different from the world he'd lived in all his life? Then he remembered Audra in Stockton and Jarrod at Sample's and Nick riding into that ambush. No, he decided, the real world was still the real world. He guessed Barkleys had just been very lucky so far, or when they got unlucky, they had a Heath Thomson around to save them from their naivety.

"How long is that going to keep you warm on a cold night?" he asked.

Nick looked at him confused and he guessed Nick maybe hadn't known any cold nights. He wondered how long all this Barkley desire to welcome the bastard at the hearth would last once their friends started crossing the sidewalk to avoid them? He didn't intend to stay long enough to be asked to leave. But maybe they did deserve more than he had given them. Maybe they were entitled to something in exchange for the memories of family they had given him. 

He didn't want to talk to this family. He had nothing to say and nothing he wished to hear from them. He had what he needed for his life. He had wanted to see these people, to know about them, but he didn't want to live with them. He loved playing the ‘what if’ game. What if he had been born a Barkley? What if this was really his brother? But he was no Barkley to believe in fairy tales. This was not his family. This was not his brother. He had a family, a dead mother, Rachel and Hannah. He couldn't afford the pain of this fairy tale and he didn't think the Barkleys could either.

Nick spent the afternoon talking about the ranch and cattle and horses. He listened to him with half an ear, thinking. He rode silently beside his brother, tried to think of some way this would end without pain for all of them and could think of no happy ending that didn't involve him riding away at this very moment.

They rode until about 5:00 in the evening by which time the horses were more than ready to stop and Nick claimed he could eat a grizzly bear. They stopped by one of the many seasonal streams that were still running down out of the Sierras. He took the gelding and the lead ropes from Nick, led the horses to the water and watched Nick gather firewood while he waited for them all to drink. He again hobbled the mares and turned them out along with Gal. Nick groomed his gelding himself and hobbled him as well, talking all the while about what he would make for supper.

He wondered yet again about Nick's constant need for noise. The man couldn't go more than five minutes without talking about something. He kept half an ear tuned to him in case he said something important and otherwise let the sound wash over him. He found he enjoyed it, the stories, the small humorous comments on passing scenery, the remembrances of past trips and events. He found himself smiling often as the early evening passed, enjoying this conversation of brothers.

Nick proved to be a generous, if untalented, camp cook. He fried half a dozen slices of bacon and then threw in two cans of beans. The result was greasy from the bacon fat, hot and plentiful. Nick offered up fresh bread he had acquired at the saloon and it was all washed down with water. He thought it was a shame to waste all that good bacon and beans in such a haphazard fashion but it was a nice change from rabbit. 

After washing up the dishes and pan, he walked back over to the fire, sat on his bedroll and leaned back against the underside of his tipped up saddle. He pulled out his makings and began working on a quirley while he listened to Nick tell him about how his brother had this great house in San Francisco and did all this law work there. He smoked and listened and thought how much of the world he would never see in his one short life.

"Okay, boy. I've been talking at you for six hours. Now it's your turn," Nick said, surprising him. He looked at Nick and waited to see if he had a question. He sure enough wasn't planning on talking at Nick for six hours.

"Well. What have you got to say for yourself? Where'd you grow up? Where'd you go to school? You got any family around here? Tell me about yourself. I'm curious to know about my new brother." 

***************

He thought about that. What could he tell this man with his ranch and his train and his fancy brother with a house in San Francisco?

"Grew up in Strawberry," he finally offered. That seemed simple enough. Nick greeted this in silence that shortly grew to exasperation.

"And?" Nick finally said. "And what?"

"No family," he offered, not wanting to make Nick angry again. He was so easy to rile.

"That's it. I tell you all about my life and my family and you tell me you grew up in Strawberry and have no family. That's it? That's your whole life? You grew up in Strawberry and you have no family!" 

Nick sounded angry again. He sighed softly and tried to think of something else he could say, something that would interest Nick. "Worked in Mexico for a while." He thought that was fairly inspired. Nick must have been to Mexico. Nick could tell him about his trip to Mexico, figured that would take him until they fell asleep for Nick to tell of his travels in Mexico.

"That's good. Doing what?" Nick said, smiling at him.

Damn, he hadn't really wanted to talk about the fighting in Mexico, but that was what happened when a man opened his mouth and started just throwing information around. "Mostly, just coming home to California, but some fighting, you know, Maximillian."

The two men sat in silence for some minutes and he hoped that Nick was satisfied. He didn't want to talk about Mexico, he couldn't remember why he had said that. He tried to think of some place he could talk about, maybe Corning. That had been good, breaking horses for Mr. Walker in Corning.

"Coming home from where?" Nick asked.

"I broke horses for Carl Walker in Corning last winter," he offered. "Man has good horses." He took his eyes off the surrounding country long enough to glance at Nick, see if that would maybe do the trick. Nick liked to talk about horses and he enjoyed listening to Nick talk.

"You were in Mexico coming home from where? Nick repeated.

He made no reply, amazed he was even having this conversation. "Was a long time ago. Sorry I brought it up," he finally said, at a loss how to move the conversation away from Mexico.

Nick seemed to take the hint though and said nothing more about Mexico or Corning. They sat in an uncomfortable silence. He'd known this wasn't going to work. He had nothing to give to Nick. No past he could share in aimless conversation. Well, maybe Corning but Nick didn't want Corning, he wanted Strawberry and now Mexico. He sighed tiredly. He'd gotten almost no sleep the night before with the long watch and the demons. Night before that wasn't much better. He wanted to sleep and not worry about Nick and Barkleys. He looked around at the horizon again, trying to remember how he let himself get in this mess of talking and visiting. He threw the end of his quirley into the fire and stood. "I'll check the horses."

The horses were fine, of course, grazing quietly. He stood and watched them, his back to the fire and the questions. He wanted to catch Gal and head away from this trap. He looked up at the sky. Still another half hour until the sun went below the horizon. He walked back to the camp and dug in his saddlebag for the box of shells. Nick sat silently, drinking his coffee, watching him.

"I'm going to try the new handgun," he offered him, showing the shells. That should be safe he thought. He walked away from the camp with the two empty cans from supper. He placed the cans on an old cottonwood log and stepped off about thirty feet, drew the gun and fired at the cans. He took his time shooting carefully, his arm extended in front of him and the gun held lightly. It was a nice weapon. Shot true without too much rise on the discharge. It wasn't anything like that beautiful handgun of Jarrod's he'd fired at Sample's farm, but this was a nice handgun. He reloaded, paced off another ten feet further away and fired six more rounds. Each shell hit the can at which he aimed, dancing the can along the ground. 

He turned and picked out a dead limb on one of the cottonwood trees while he reloaded. Trouble with cans was, they pretty soon ended up dancing around on the ground unless you walked back and put them on something every time you shot. Shooting down toward the ground wasn't a good of test of a gun. Since the shell fell as it traveled, didn't give so much feel for aiming the weapon. He fired another load and was satisfied he understood the way the gun pulled. 

He reloaded again and dropped the gun into the holster. He pulled the pistol out carefully, fired one shot at the limb and hit it where it joined the tree. He dropped the gun back into the holster and repeated the move, firing twice this time. Gun rose a bit to the left on discharge but dropped back fairly well. He drew and fired three shots this time, compensating for the rise a might better and was satisfied.

He saw Nick standing behind him watching. "Nice shooting," Nick said noncommittally.

"Try her?" he offered.

Nick nodded his head and he handed him the reloaded weapon. Nick fired the handgun six times quickly at, he thought, a knot on the same cottonwood tree about thirty feet away. Nick hit the knot twice and was very close another two times, nice shooting with an unfamiliar weapon.

"Not so bad yourself," he said and smiled as he took the returned weapon. 

He walked back to his saddle, pulled out his gun cleaning kit and began breaking the gun down and cleaning it.

"Looks like a useful weapon," Nick said, handing him another cup of coffee.

"Pulls a might," glad he could offer something so easy to the conversation.

"Not the world's fastest draw there," Nick said, smiling at him.

"Nope."

"Guess you’re more of a rifle man."

"Yup." He thought this was going quite well. Nick would be pleased they were having a conversation and he was pleased they weren't talking about Strawberry or Mexico.

"HOW MANY WORDS DO YOU KNOW, BOY?"

He sighed. Guessed it wasn't going as well as he thought. "What do you want from me, Nick?" he asked softly.

"I WANT YOU TO TALK TO ME. TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF." Now it was Nick's turn to look uncertain. He ran his gloved hand through his hair. "Look boy, I just met you a week ago. I find out you’re my brother. I want to know about you. I'm happy to tell you about me and my… our family. But I want to know about you too."

He sat silently digesting this, thinking on it. He'd never told anyone about himself. Wasn't something he did. But he'd never met a new brother before either. He had enjoyed listening to Nick tell him about the ranch and his family and his life. But he had nothing like that he could share. He tried to think of a good story he could share.

"WELL?"

"I'm trying. Give me a minute." He gave Nick a small smile to let him know he was really trying. He tried to think of some story he might have told his mama. He decided that wasn't very helpful, he'd pretty much left home by the time he was twelve. Oh, he'd visited with his mama plenty later, especially since the war. He'd tell her where he'd been, things he'd seen, but she never asked him questions. Mostly they just sat with each other enjoying the company, not really saying very much. He guessed maybe he and his mama just weren't real big on talking.

He knew already Nick wasn't going to be satisfied with him saying he'd been to Corning, not really much story in Corning. He guessed that was why he liked thinking on those three months breaking horses, nothing much happened. He'd spent enough time in bunkhouses and around campfires to know that if a man told a story, he expected something in return. He just wasn't used to these sorts of stories that cut so close to him. Men in bunkhouses and on trail drives didn't ask about what a man didn't tell. This business of brothers and questions was new to him. He didn't want to tell some story and have Nick come back with some question he couldn't answer.

"I was driving a Wells Fargo coach between Redding and Alturas in '67. That was the year of the big strike in Canby. I pick up five soiled doves in Redding for a new business venture in Canby. My other passenger’s a new preacher for Alturas." He paused and sipped a little of his coffee making sure Nick was seeing the possibility of the situation. 

"So we get to Ingot and stop to change horses. The preacher climbs out with one of the doves, takes her over to the horse trough and baptizes her. We get to Round Mountain and he's saved another soul and baptizes her in the a little stream coming out behind the depot while we're eating lunch. Montgomery Creek and we’re down to two soiled doves, three saved souls and a preacher in the coach." He paused to drink some of his coffee and study Nick over the top of his cup. He swallowed and gave his brother a small smile. 

"Next morning he saves one in Adin in a horse trough. By this time we're down to one hold out and are pulling into Canby. So the preacher calls out to me, 'I'm almost there, the Lord needs another half hour.' So I drive right on through Canby." He paused so Nick could picture that coach coming into Canby and driving right on through. "He saves her in another twenty minutes so I turn the coach around and drive back to Canby." 

"Those miners are all lined up in front of the depot in Canby, waiting for that coach and those doves. It drives right on through town. Forty minutes later we're back and they're all still lined up. Out step those five saved souls. Miners nearly lynched the preacher and Maurice MacGregor, man with the new business venture, wanted to burn the stage office." Nick was laughing out loud by this point.

"What happened to your saved doves?"

"They opened up a boarding house, called it the Five Sisters. Course, by the time they had it opened, two of them had married miners and one moved to Alturas with the preacher" he finished dryly.

"My God, I've stayed there. Peg Larson." Nick was full of wonder.

Now it was his turn to give Nick a small smile. "Yup, the very same." He knew Barkley Sierra had a mine in Canby, he'd figured Nick had probably been up there at least once.

Nick told him about his trip to Canby, about staying at the boarding house and what Peg Larson was doing with her life. He listened happily to Nick’s ramblings, enjoying the story and pleased he didn't need to provide any more stories of his own. 

Eventually even Nick ran out of words and they drank their last cup of coffee in silence. He chewed on the bits of ground coffee as he walked out for a last check on the horses and then wandered up into the rocks north of camp to hide his rifle. When he came back to camp, Nick was already stretched out in his bedroll. He sat down on his own bedroll and considered for a few minutes. Then without removing his boots, he lay back against his saddle on top of his blanket, determined to stay awake and avoid sharing his demons with Nick again.

The next thing he knew was the smell. The awful smell of dead bodies three days gone and buried too shallow to stop the reek of putrefaction. The smell hung in the air a miasma; a fog that could almost be seen so heavy was the odor. 

He opened his eyes and looked about. He was in a field of mud and water, the sky grey with the undissipated smoke of a thousand guns, the world a place of black mud and grey sky. He could see the mud moving with the bodies of the dead, roiling in their shallow graves of mud and water. He attempted to push himself to his feet to escape from the awful reek and the horrible sight. His hands came down into the mud and water and awful offal of the ground. Gagging with the reek of the place, he pushed himself to his feet. He turned to try and escape from the buried and half buried bodies only to trip and fall as the hands of his dead grabbed him. As he struggled to his feet again, he saw he was surrounded not only by his victims, but also by the bodies of the Barkleys, deformed and awful in death. He fought the hands holding him to the ground, attempting to inter him with his victims. He struck out in an effort to escape the sea of bodies and mud and offal.

"Wake up, boy. Wake up, it’s okay."

He didn't know when he woke. He just knew at some point the moans of the dead became understandable speech and he knew he was dreaming and Nick Barkley was shaking him awake. In a paroxysm of fear and loathing and humiliation, he fought for his freedom. 

"Let me go. Get your hands off me." He struggled in a confusion of Nick's hands and his own blanket, finally tore himself free of both and staggered off into the darkness. Shaking uncontrollably, he took himself away from the camp and into the surrounding cottonwoods, tripping and nearly falling as the dead branches reached up and tried to pull him to the ground in a horrible parody of his nightmare. After falling twice, he just let himself lie on the ground, his arms wrapped around his waist to hold his body from shaking apart. He lay there swearing to himself, or at himself, while he waited out the fear. Waited while he sorted out the fearful boy and put him away again. When the shaking was done, he sat up, exhausted, rested his arms on his knees and his head on his arms, too spent to rise from the ground. He smelled the meadow grass he was sitting in and put the reek of his dead away. He listened to the wind gently rattling the leaves over his head and whispering through the grass and put the moaning and calling of his dead away.

When he rose to his feet, he could see the fire clearly about a hundred feet away. Nick had built it up again. He stood undecided for a moment. The temptation to go find Gal and ride off bare back nudged at him like a horse looking for grain. It would be so easy. But his gear was at the fire and he couldn't work without a saddle, not to mention that handgun he'd killed a man to get.

He walked slowly back over to the fire, careful of the dead branches hidden in the tall grass still anxious to trip him. Nick had a pot of coffee pushed into the coals. When he saw Heath in the fire light, he poured him a cup and held it up from where he was sitting, a peace offering. He took the proffered cup and sat down on his torn up bedroll, his back to his saddle. The heat of the cup felt good in his hands, its warmth a reassurance of life in a world full of death. He held the cup unable to drink it, unable to do anything but hold the cup and look into the fire. He'd not had a dream that bad in years. He carefully didn't allow himself to remember when he'd last dreamed like that. Remembering the dreams was almost as bad as the dreams themselves. It all needed to be put away. Kept away from his living if he was to have any living at all.

"So, bad dream I guess," Nick said.

"Yeah."

For a wonder Nick didn't pursue it. He just sat and drank his coffee and looked into the fire. He figured the two of them sitting there, backlit by that fire, not paying any attention, looked like a couple of real fools asking to be bushwhacked. But he was glad for the fire and didn't care about bushwhackers.

"I'm heading back up north in morning." 

"OH NO. WE HAD THIS TALK ALREADY!"

"That was before. You can see this isn't going to work." He couldn't keep the exasperation out of his voice. He was tired. Tired of staying on the good side of Nick. Tired of finding something to say to shut up his insatiable curiosity and most of all, tired of Barkleys who went through life living by Barkley rules with no sense of what was right or necessary or seemly.

"OH, SO YOU’RE AN INDIAN MEDICINE MAN NOW?"

He knew he should think about that comment. Try and figure out what stupid Barkley notion that stemmed from, but he didn't care any more. "What?" he asked tiredly.

"You get a dream or a vision, it tells you what to do with your life and off you go? Thought only Indian medicine men got their guidance from dreams." Nick was angry and as always, made no effort to hide his outrage.

"I ain't movin' into that fancy house of yours and then screamin' the roof off for your entertainment." He'd started to answer Nick there anger for anger. He paused for a second while he got himself under control again. Didn't know what it was about this brother of his could get him angry this way. "Ya' know nothin' about me. Ya' best just let me go my way."

"WELL FINALLY… That's the whole point, to learn something about you. For you to open your mouth and tell me about yourself. To tell me about the true Heath. I want to know about you."

He half smiled at Nick at that request. There were maybe things Nick might want to know, but he was sure the truth about him wasn't one of them.

"You know about me all you need to know," he said tiredly, looking into his cup as if the answers he sought floated on its surface.

Nick was silent and they sat for some while. Naturally, it was finally Nick who broke that silence. "My father did something wrong. Something I can't understand…. but he left you to grow up alone." He and Nick sat silently for a time each lost in the contemplation of their cold coffee. 

Then Nick said, "My family owes you a debt. Won’t you allow us to repay it?"

He looked up at Nick at that remark. He supposed the old man did owe him something, for surely men who made children owed those children something. Did the father's death pass the debt to his sons? He thought on the doctor in Pinecrest and his own debt he could never pay. He understood honor and unpaid debts and gave Nick a small nod.


	6. Chapter 6

He looked at the boy lost in the contemplation of his cup of coffee and waited until Heath looked up at him, eyebrow quirked in question. He couldn't understand how his father could have left a woman with this child alone in a mining camp. He'd not believed it possible. That such an act being impossible, then this boy couldn't be his father's son or his brother. But being around the boy, watching him move, listening to his voice, that small half smile, the natural gentle way he had with men and horses, he'd begun to wonder. And wondering about Heath, he'd thought again on his mother's words and Jarrod's story. Believing the boy's simple assertion of Tom Barkley's paternity had been if not easy at least not so very hard after the wondering, the thinking, and the being with Heath.

He studied the dimly lit, hunched form. How did such a fine young man come to call himself the sin of his father made flesh. He felt a sudden almost uncontrollable anger at his father for the awful wrong done this boy, his brother. How could so much harm ever be made right?

"My family owes you a debt. Will you not allow us to repay it?"

He waited out Heath's silence and wondered again at his lack of rage. The boy was a mystery, growing up in Strawberry, no family except his mother, no father, no money. What haunted him in the night, for truly the boy was haunted. Heath looked up and caught his eye; even in the dim firelight he could see how tired and drawn the boy's face was. Heath gave him small nod and looked away again.

He remembered his own growing up with a family and a father. Going to school, learning the ranch business from his father. What had he been like at this boy's age, at twenty-one? He'd turned twenty-one in 1862. 

He'd been a burden on his family that year, so anxious to be with Jarrod in Washington to join the army and fight in the war. The farthest he'd ever been from home was two years of schooling in San Francisco and driving cattle to San Diego with his father. His growing up had been idyllic, his father watching out for him, teaching him the business of ranching, of cattle, of horses, of being a man.

Father not letting him join the army, asking him to stay in California another year, had been the biggest disagreement he'd ever had with his family. Father had made him wait out that year. Told him he needed his help on the ranch, that he could best serve the Union cause by raising beef. He asked Nick to stay, that if Nick would give him one more year on the ranch, he would give his blessing for his joining the Army. He'd been in a panic to go that year, sure the war would be over before he could even get to Maryland, let alone join the fight.

His father had finally relented the following year and given his reluctant blessing to his sailing for Baltimore and joining the army. He was thankful now his father had made him wait as long as he had. Two years of war was enough for him, more than enough for any man. 

How had his father left this boy to grow up alone in Strawberry? The boy in Mexico, driving a stage from Redding, what else had Heath done while he at the same age had still been going to school? For a certainty the boy had been working, no way he'd been living without working for his daily bread. Bread he figured his family owed the boy, this silent, frustrating, strange young man with the amazing skill with rifle and handgun. He'd kidded the boy about his slow draw but he'd never seen anyone with a better aim with a handgun and he already knew he was a dead shot with a rifle. What kind of boy his age was a dead shot with a rifle and cut reins and unbuckled throatlatches like he'd been doing it all his life?

Heath was the most frustrating man he'd ever met. Wouldn't talk to him. Wouldn't get angry and wouldn't let him make things right for what his father had done. It was all he could do to prevent Heath from just mounting up on that little mare and riding away, never to be seen again. He wished Jarrod was here with his clever talking to keep Heath from riding away until he could understand that they wanted him to stay. He was surprised to find how afraid he was of the boy leaving. When had that happened?

Heath holding that cold cup of coffee, staring into the fire, what demons were stalking him in his dreams, what had a boy his age, shooting like that done to be so haunted? Heath was right. They knew nothing about him, and at this rate, weren't likely to get any wiser. 

Finally, tired from a day of nonstop talking, he threw the dregs of his coffee off to the side and curled back up in his bedroll. He sure hoped that boy would still be there in the morning, but short of tying him up, knew no way to keep him from going. He wanted him to stay. He wanted to know about him. He glanced up one more time at the blond head bowed over the cold coffee cup, the eyes studying the fire intently and again felt that anger at his father, the anger for his father's neglect of this boy. That his father had left his brother to grow up so haunted he couldn't string five words together in a day or sleep through the night.

******************

When he first opened his eyes in the morning, he thought the boy had gone in the night. Then he realized his saddle was still sitting on the ground, the coals of the fire had been stirred and restarted, and saw the coffee pot pushed into the flames. He pulled back his blanket and sat up in the cool early morning light. The sky was brightening but the sun still hadn't risen. He looked around to see what had wakened him and decided it must have been Heath walking away. He could see him just disappearing into the morning gloom in the direction of the grazing horses.

He sat up, drew on his boots, pulled the blanket around his shoulders and followed the boy into the gloaming. He found Heath about fifty yards from the camp, sitting on a dead cottonwood log, watching the horses graze. He sat down beside him and realized the boy wasn't watching the horses but was watching the sunrise. He looked at him quizzically but naturally the kid didn't say a word, just sat there as quiet as the morning, thinking whatever it was he thought in his perpetual silence. He decided to wait the boy out. Let him have the first word this morning. Show him he could be just as quiet, just as stubborn as Heath Thomson. Let the boy beg him for a word.

So he sat next to the boy. The sun rose over the distant Sierras streaking the sky with reds and yellows revealing a layer of ground fog obscuring the horses in the brightening light, so the horses' bodies appeared to float legless over a sea of grey. "Don't usually see that in California," Nick said, surprised out of his self-imposed silence. "Used to get that deep valley fog all the time in Tennessee, but never see it out here. Not enough humidity I suppose."

"Yeah," the boy said, never taking his eyes off the field and the rising sun.

Darn, he thought. He'd not meant to say anything but that fog had really been a surprise, had tricked him, lying so low like that. "I remember once riding in fog so dense, I couldn't see the horse in front of me. A whole column of cavalry, all the noise of the column and all I could see was the orderly riding beside me. Rebs attacked us out of that fog. Must have shot at the noise, they sure couldn't have seen us. Course, could have been our own infantry, no way of knowing." Nick was silent a moment, remembering. He didn't speak often of the war. Tried not to think about it either, but it was often there just out of thought and something would happen and bring it all back, like this morning's strange fog. "Whoever it was did a lot of damage that day, just opened fire all along the column. Dead men and dead horses all down the lane for half a mile."

"Fog saved us, second morning at Chickamauga," Heath spoke so softly, the words so surprising him that Nick turned toward him and spoke before he thought.

"You were at Chickamauga?" Then he cursed himself. Why hadn't he shut up? Maybe the boy would have kept talking? Then he shook himself for a fool. Boy hadn't strung more than five words together the two days they'd been on the trail except for his soiled doves story. He wasn't going to suddenly give his life history sitting here on an old cottonwood log in the early morning light.

"I'll get the horses." Heath got up and walked away. No surprise there. Nick did the math in his head. At Chickamauga Heath'd have been fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. He sighed, plenty of boys in that war playing drums, orderlies and even soldiers. He wondered, if he was at Chickamauga, how he had ever gotten there from California. He suspected that was a story all by itself. He sat and watched the boy standing, waiting as his mare came up to him in the fog. He was a mystery, that boy. The longer he was around him, the less he seemed to know about him. Chickamauga. Heaven preserve him, Chickamauga.

*************

He stood next to Gal, stroking her face gently as she leaned her forehead against his chest. He couldn't understand where that comment about the fog at Chickamauga had come from. What had caused him to offer Nick that awful memory that he didn't even let himself see if he could prevent it. He supposed it was Nick's sharing the story of the cavalry in the fog. He'd never shared a word of that war with anyone. Three and a half, almost four years of his life, and he had never before spoken a word about any of it with a living soul, until today. Until a brother had asked, had shared his war with him. He shook his head at this brothers talking thing, not sure where such gabbing might lead.

He gave Gal a last stroke and walked back to the camp with her following after him. He poured some oats on the ground for her and went to retrieve his rifle. There was no hurry on the day. The mares were all foot sore and would need several weeks to fully recover from their trip north with the horse thieves. This would be another slow travel day, lucky if they made twenty miles.

Nick had bacon cooking over the fire when he got back to camp with his rifle. It smelled good. He squatted down by the fire and poured himself another cup of coffee. Nick handed him two cold biscuits, a couple pieces of bacon between them.

"Those mares are walking pretty soft," he told Nick.

"Yeah. I think we can leave the road another ten miles and head into the hills with them. Ground will be softer. There's a spring-fed pond up there maybe five or six miles. Their band uses it all summer once the mountain runoff dries up. These mares are foot sore enough to hang around there until the band shows up in the next few days."

He nodded to Nick. That was good. Save them riding all over those hills looking for the rest of the band of mares. The biscuits and bacon were delicious and gone quickly. He leaned back against his saddle to enjoy the coffee. He'd been eating out of Nick's food, figured he'd get a rabbit for their supper. Nick probably hadn't had as much rabbit as he'd had this last week. Nick might enjoy it. Be a change for him from beef and bacon, he thought sardonically. Good for Nick's soul, eat a little rabbit once in a while.

"Be home tonight, supper time."

He nodded again, then thought better of it and answered, "Yeah." Thought Nick would like that, him conversing.

They broke camp and were on the road in an hour, letting the horses pick the pace most of the time out of concern for the mares with their sore feet. The heaviest bred mare was looking a bit dropped to him and he wondered if they would get to her home range in time for her to foal.

"So how did you come to be in the east?" Nick asked.

He looked at Nick for a moment, thinking about the question and the answer. Trying to see where answering that question was likely to take them both. He appreciated that of all the questions that might have come from the morning conversation on the cottonwood log, this was probably the least painful and applauded Nick for that.

"I worked for Mr. Russell, at first as a horse tender. Later I rode the mail." He waited to see if Nick understood what he had told him. If he wanted more information or if that was enough so he understood how he came to be in the east. Nick seemed to need to have things really spelled out. But he figured Nick liked to talk so he maybe thought other people liked to talk too. He thought this was enough information for Nick to talk back to him, tell him which parts he hadn't understood, needed explained.

"Russell? Russell, Majors and Waddell? You rode for the Pony Express?" There was a new tone in Nick's voice. He didn't know what it meant, hoped he wasn't going to get upset and start yelling about this.

"Yeah. Started as a horse tender, didn't start riding until the beginning of '61." He scanned the trail again. He'd been getting a little anxious about the trail ever since they started that morning. The horses didn't seem bothered but twice he thought he'd seen dust on their back trail. They were traveling so slow if anyone was back there they should have passed them by this time. Made him a little anxious, wondering what might be back of them and not catching up.

"Damn. Rode for the Pony Express. How'd you come to be so far east?" Nick asked.

"We all moved around quite a bit. Just boys wanted to see something different. We were always switching routes. I just got going east and kept going that way." He remembered his first sight of the plains of Wyoming and Nebraska, the big sky and the great sea of grass stretching as far as a man could see. 

"Must have been fun."

"Yeah, it was. Scary some, but mostly boys and fast horses." He guessed it was the most fun he'd ever had in his life. Riding those horses across the prairie, racing the world and getting paid for it. He smiled at Nick thanking him for reminding him of the pleasure of that year, a pleasure that he had lost in the four years that followed.

"By the time they closed us down, I was in Missouri. Mr. Russell sent six of us east with a herd of horses for the army buyers in St. Jo." He shrugged; the rest was just boys and fast horses too. He figured Nick would understand that part.

"And you joined up?"

"There were six of us. Oldest of us was seventeen. We thought… thought it was another adventure. You know, just boys." He closed his mind to that remembering. He would not remember that day, those six boys. He would not think about that day, those weeks, that decision, that stupid, stupid decision made by boys on a clear winter day nine years ago.

"Good place to noon here," he said a bit desperately, although they should probably have ridden another hour before they stopped.

"There's a better place right where we leave the trail to head up to the lake. We can stop there, maybe four more miles."

He nodded, not looking at Nick. Looking around the surrounding hills, desperate for his eye to see something to think about instead of that clear winter day in Missouri and those six stupid boys. "Ya' ride ahead. I gotta check Gal’s foot here." He doubted Nick would believe such a stupid excuse but was lost what else to do.

For a wonder of understanding, Nick nodded and rode on down the road leading his two mares. He climbed out of the saddle and stood leaning his head against Gal's shoulder, just breathing slowly. That had been stupid. Start talking and next thing you know -- stupid. He checked all four of her feet, nothing else to do, and saw nothing, probably wouldn't have seen anything if she'd had a boulder in her foot. Then he looked back down the trail, remembering that dust and thought he saw it again, a smudge on the horizon that shouldn't have been there. Too far to be sure what it was, but not looking like it should and no one catching up to them and now the dust looking like it was moving east of the road into the hills.

After checking all Gal's feet, running his hand down her legs and checking the girth on his saddle, he ran out of things to do and had to ride back and catch up Nick. They rode another hour, Nick talking about the horse herd they were hunting. He discussed where they liked to range and when they were all due to foal. He figured he ever saw that horse herd again, he would recognize every mare in it, Nick of a kindness talking of horses and pasture and not wars and stupid boys.

**************

They took a long nooning to give the mares a chance to rest. Gave him a chance to lie down for a while and absently listen to Nick talk about all the work he had waiting back at the ranch for the two of them, gathering cow-calf pairs and branding. Moving the pairs up into the high mountain meadows for the hot summer months and, of course, cleaning and repairing irrigation ditches. He let the words roll over him like a warm, easy breeze, the sound making a safe feeling in his head until he woke, not realizing he'd slept.

"Hey, sleepy head, we should get going, still got two hours ride to that lake." Nick was sitting at their little fire drinking coffee. Nick poured a second cup and offered it to him as he sat up and ran his hand through his hair and across his face. No idea how he had managed to sleep, but feeling better than he had since leaving Stockton.

"Thanks," he said, taking the proffered cup. It was strong and rich tasting. He smiled to himself and wondered, did Barkleys have different, richer coffee than the rest of the world? He thought he might be carrying this 'Barkleys are different' thing a mite too far when he started thinking their coffee was richer than other folks. He drank his coffee and studied the skyline all about their little nooning spot, looking for any telltale dust. The day was still and quiet and he saw nothing but a pale blue sky and a clear horizon already shrinking with the rising foothills. 

Half an hour later they were back in the saddle, headed east across rolling open grassland. The mares were moving more freely now that they were getting closer to their home ground, forgetting their sore feet in their eagerness to get back to their herd. Two hours of riding changed the ground they were covering from rolling hills to much steeper hills and Nick began to lead them around the steepest parts and through the draws, the terrain always rising toward the Sierras.

"We'll be there another half hour or so. Just down this draw, nice little meadow with good year-round water and shade. Wouldn't be surprised to see the herd there." Nick had been riding silently for almost an hour, apparently running out of words. He enjoyed the quiet but found he sort of missed the talking. All that information just pouring out of Nick had been amazing.

He pulled up at the start of the draw, looking down the trail steeply flanked on either side by hills rising up perhaps sixty seventy feet. He again scanned the sky all around, looking for any sign of dust, not expecting to see it after having looked so often and seen nothing. Nick had already started down the draw and was perhaps thirty feet ahead when he stopped and looked back at him.

"WHAT?"

He just shook his head at Nick. The mare he was leading at the end of her rope trying to follow Nick's two mares down the draw.

"WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? Shaking your head? Speak, boy, what now?" Nick's exasperation was evident. It was a warm day, not hot but he knew he was sweaty and hot and ready to get where they were going. He was sure Nick, being a less patient man, was even more eager to get to his lake and drop the mares so he could head back to the ranch and the warm bath he'd been talking about for the past two days.

"Not going down that draw," he told him, thinking his sitting there not following him was pretty obvious indication he had no intention of following him into that ravine.

"It’s the way to the lake. We need to take these mares to the lake. We leave them here, they might not go the two miles down the ravine." Nick's tone sounded like he was speaking to an idiot. He was spacing his words out and saying each one a little clearer and louder than really necessary, not yelling yet but getting near that point.

He looked around again, up at the sky for dust and along the ridgelines he could see. The further east they had traveled, the less he liked the ground they were riding. He wanted to know where that dust had gone that followed and never caught up. He looked at that ravine again and shook his head.

"Swing around and come in from the south," he suggested, making no move toward Nick.

"It’s five miles out of our way. I've been this way a hundred times; it’s tight and narrow through here, but the horses don't mind." He could see Nick trying to figure out what his problem was. He wished he could tell him. He just wasn't sure. He wished now he'd said something when he'd seen the dust in the morning. Maybe gotten Nick thinking a bit more about riders they couldn't see who wouldn't pass two cowboys leading three-foot sore, pregnant mares.

"Not that much out of the way. Need to go south anyway, get to the ranch."

"You got a reason you can't ride down this trail?" He thought Nick was really trying to meet him part way on this.

"Yeah." He thought on how he could explain dust on the horizon four hours ago and the hair standing on the back of his neck. "Feels like a trap."

Nick sat still, studying him, and then he looked down the trail into the ravine already shady with afternoon shadows cast by the steep banks on either side. 

"Okay, long way around it is."

He thought that was mighty good of Nick to listen, consider his point and he gave him a smile. Tried to think was there something else he could offer him. Some talking he could give him, Nick setting such store by talking. As they rode along the edge of the big hill headed south, he tried to think if he had something he could say to Nick wouldn't lead to troublesome questions. 

"Before Mr. Walker in Corning, I worked three months driving cattle up to Klamath." 

Nick looked at him, surprised he guessed, by this information so he gave him a small smile; let him know he was making conversation, sharing information. Nick just laughed and shook his head. Scanning the hill off to their north, he tried to work his way around why Nick thought that was funny. Decided he must need more practice on this talking with his brother business.

They'd ridden perhaps an hour on their new course and were again headed east on steeper ground, passing over the shoulder of the big hill the ravine would have cut through. The mares now certainly knew they were home and were beginning to pull some on the lead lines. Nick let his gelding pick up the pace to a slow jog and he followed along beside him, both men trying to stay ahead of the mares to avoid the dust. There was a big stand of cottonwoods just a dark spot a mile or more ahead of them that Nick pointed out as being the lake.

"Let's leave them here," he suggested to Nick, slowing Gal back down to a walk.

"Nah, we'll take them all the way. See if the band has been there and water the saddle horses." 

He knew that was the smart thing to do. Hadn't had a good watering spot all day and the horses all wanted a long drink. He pulled Gal a small distance further from Nick's gelding, trying to keep an eye on the rocks on the steep ground off to his north while also watching the approaching cottonwoods. Unable to resist the uneasiness any longer, he pulled his rifle from its scabbard, knowing Nick wouldn't like it.

"NOW WHAT?"

"I don't know," he had to confess but he kept the rifle across the pommel of his saddle and slowed Gal to a walk. "Dust behind us most of the morning," he tried to explain and could see Nick starting to answer when the first shot rang out and Nick flew out of his saddle. 

He knew the cottonwoods were too far away for that shot, had to have been the rocks above them. He dropped the mare's lead line and kneed Gal hard. He needed to get away from Nick, to spread the target for their assailants. He let the mare run thirty feet, bullets pocking the ground around her as she ran, before dropping off her and rolling on the ground. No cover here. He needed to not let the attackers get off many shots or they'd be dead.

He rolled over twice and finished flat on his stomach, his rifle pointed up hill. As he'd expected, their attackers had risen from hiding to follow his flight on Gal. He could see two men standing and one kneeling. He shot one of those standing, rolled to his feet and ran back the way he'd come. Figured the shooters would expect him to move in the same direction he'd been traveling. He got off another shot running and was pleased to see another man fall. He cut back again, making up the hill now, looking for a target, seeing none. After fifty feet of running, he slowed to a walk, winded, pulled his rifle close to his stomach to try and cushion his sore ribs. 

The fall and roll from the saddle had reminded his ribs they were broken and they hadn't forgotten with his running around. He could hear hooves ahead of him and figured at least one of the attackers had run off and, as he listened, decided there were two horses running. He had to choose: get to the top of that hill, see if he could catch sight of the runners, or make sure of the men he'd shot. He decided he didn't want those wounded ambushers behind him and took his time climbing the hill. 

First man was dead. Second one was shot through the left shoulder but up high, feeling considerable pain but not hurt too badly. He pulled the wounded man to his feet and forced him down the hill at the end of his rifle, anxious to get back to Nick. See how badly injured he was. Afraid what he might find. 

Nick was already on his feet with his gun drawn by the time he got to the bottom of the hill. "Hit my canteen," Nick said. "I've got splinters in my leg but nothing that'll kill me."

Nick came limping over to them, "YOU WANT TO TELL US WHY YOU WERE TRYING TO KILL US?" Nick said glowering at his wounded prisoner. 

"Let me look," he told Nick.

"It's okay."

"Let me look."

"WHY WERE YOU SHOOTING AT US?" Nick continued to berate the prisoner as Heath tried to get a look at Nick's leg.

The man just looked at Nick, his right hand supporting his left arm, his face white and strained from the pain or the shock of his wound. So far he hadn't said a word. Heath helped the man sit down on the ground and turned back to Nick, who was standing over the prisoner no doubt attempting to intimidate with his greater size.

"WELL? YOU COULD HAVE KILLED US!"

Thinking that had been exactly what the man had intended, he disregarded the useless conversation. Nick sure did like to talk all around problems, he thought. Talk them to death. "Turn around so I can look," he told Nick again

Giving an exaggerated sigh, Nick half turned so he could see the side of his britches liberally smeared with blood still oozing out of several holes in his pants. He glanced at it, walked over to Gal and rummaged in his saddlebags for his spare bandage. Then grabbing his canteen, he walked back over to the bushwhacker he had forced down the hill.

"Let me look at your shoulder." The man made no protest as he opened his shirt, too sore to put up much of a fuss. The bullet was still in his shoulder, he thought probably stopped by the big bone there and the fact that it had been a long shot and uphill. Not much force left in the shot at that distance. He made a ball of the end of the bandage, pushed that into the wound to stop the bleeding and then used the rest of the long strip of cloth to bind it in place. He gave the man a drink from his canteen, which he accepted greedily.

"Lie down there for a little while 'til the bleeding stops." He helped the man lie back on the ground and left him there. He walked over to Nick who was half leaning against his horse, picking pieces of the shattered canteen out of the leather of his saddle.

"Sit down, Nick." He put his hand on Nick's shoulder and turned him gently away from the saddle. "Sit down, let me take a look at that leg."

"It's okay."

"Take off your gun belt, let’s get a good look." Nick allowed himself to be led away from the horse and consented to sit down on the ground. Pulling his knife out of his boot, he carefully cut the fabric away from the worst of the bloody section of Nick's leg. "Not too bad." He pulled out the biggest splinter.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOUR KILLING ME!"

"Boy Howdy, Nick, a lousy splinter." He pulled out another splinter while Nick was yelling.

"STOP IT."

"That's the worst of it."

"Hurts." 

He patted Nick on the shoulder. "Long way from your heart."

Nick laughed.

"I'm going to go get their horses."

Nick nodded to him absentmindedly, still examining the cuts on his leg. He smiled to himself as he walked toward Gal, his left arm around his stomach cushioning his sore ribs, his rifle in his right hand. 

The climb was steep and the day was hot. He stopped at the top of the hill to look around. There were two horses ground tied on the far side of the hill, forty feet down from the crest. He looked away further and could see a cloud of dust in the distance. He watched the dust, hard to tell which way it was traveling. He looked around and could see nothing else of any interest. 

He gathered up the reins of the two horses and led them back over the hill to the dead ambusher's body. He knelt down, rolled the body over and on to his shoulder, managed to heave him up on to the back of the horse and then stood for a moment to catch his breath. He tied the dead man's hands and feet to the stirrups and remounted Gal. He rode back up to the top of the hill and looked off toward the dust. It was moving in their direction, four or five minutes he thought. 

"Rider coming," he said, pulling up beside Nick who was still messing about pulling the last of the metal splinters out of his saddle. Nick reached across his saddle, pulled out his rifle as Heath stepped out of his own saddle and let the reins drop to the ground.

He walked over to check on his outlaw with the shoulder wound. The man opened his eyes when he squatted down next to him. He handed him the canteen and waited while the man took a drink. By the time he had returned the canteen to the horse, he could see the dust of the approaching rider clearly from where they were standing. A few moments later it was possible to see the horse and rider. "Looks like one of our horses," Nick said, squinting into the dust. "Yeah, that's Barrett," Nick added as he shoved his rifle back into its scabbard.

Heath smiled dryly. His day was now complete. Ignoring the incoming rider, he checked the cinches on the all of the horses. Nick went over to meet Barrett who was drawing rein and approaching at a walk mindful of the dust. Heath walked one of the horses over to the wounded outlaw and helped him mount. He unbuckled the throatlatch and cut a rein as he had done on the outlaws’ earlier in the week. He figured pretty soon half the bridles in California would only have one rein. He stood beside the horse absently stroking his neck as he listened to his brother and Barrett talking.

"What are you doing here?"

"I was riding out to check the mares. I heard the gunshots and rode in as fast as I could. What happened?"

"You see any other riders?" Nick asked. When Barrett shook his head no Nick explained, "Bushwhackers took a shot at us." Nick pointed his head up the hill. "Heath managed to get two of them."

Barrett looked over at him and the two men gazed assessingly at each other. "Huh. Surprised to hear that," Barrett sneered, winking at him. 

"What do you mean by that?" Nick asked, bristling.

He half smiled at his brother. He was enjoying this brother-to-the-defense thing every time Barrett came after him. He could get used to being a little brother.

"Nothing boss, just meant long shot up to those rocks is all." Barrett backed away from his sneer.

"Well, we still need to get these horses to water and then head into Stockton with this prisoner," Nick said mollified.

Nick mounted his horse and he followed suit. While Nick rode beside Barrett, talking to the hand about activities on the ranch over the past week, he rode behind them, leading one of the mares and the gelding with the dead man tied to his back. He watched Nick and Barrett talking and thought about Barrett riding up, thought about him looking up into the rocks and commenting upon what a good shot he'd been to hit the dead ambusher. He took his rifle out of the scabbard and rode with it across the pommel of his saddle while he scanned the woods ahead. He didn't see anywhere else for someone to be hiding, except those woods around the waterhole that Nick was riding straight towards.


	7. Chapter 7

He wished he had more time to think on this, more time to figure out what was happening. No way, if Barrett was part of that ambush, he would have suddenly gotten brave enough to attack Nick while riding beside him alone. So either he hadn't been a part of it, or he meant them no harm now, or there was another ambusher waiting for them in those trees.

He shook the slack out of the rope around the mare's neck he was ponying and let her go. She was half a mile from that water; she'd get there without him moving her along. He handed the reins of the gelding with the dead body tied to its saddle to the wounded ambusher. Man didn't look too happy but the wound wasn't serious and he could dally that rope if he needed to. That left Heath's hands free and them a quarter mile from the trees.

He knew Barrett didn't like him much. But no way some cowhand was going to get three buddies and ambush some down on his luck drifter because he didn't like him. But he thought a Nick Barkley with a huge ranch and a big feud with the railroad was maybe another story.

So, he tried to think what to do. Barrett was riding beside Nick. Seemed like Barrett's target must be Nick. That meant whoever was hiding in those trees, if there was someone hiding in the trees and Heath Thomson wasn't some fearful fool who'd been ambushed one time too many in the last week, that hiding shooter would be aiming at him. Not too much he could do about that bushwhacker he couldn't see, but he could do something about Barrett. He rode up closer behind the two men, his eyes on Barrett's gun hand. 

Just as he saw the man's hand drop to his revolver, he gave Gal a hard squeeze with his heels, pushed her into a canter and sent her between Barrett's horse on the left and Nick's on the right, Gal knocking Barrett's bigger bay most of the way into a stumble.

"WHAT THE …."

"Can't you control your horse, boy?" Barrett always with the big mouth.

Worried he'd put Nick in the way of the bushwhacker while giving himself cover between the two riders, he hit Nick's big chocolate gelding hard on his rump with his hat and nearly unseated Nick. As Nick's horse sprang forward, Heath reached over and grabbed Barrett's gun hand, the pistol already out of the holster. The two of them wrestled for control of the gun for a moment before it discharged and knocked him from the saddle, Barrett coming with him. 

The combination of the gunshot, the impact of Barrett's body landing on top of him, and the hard ground, knocked the wind out of him and pushed him to the edge of unconsciousness. At first he was only vaguely aware of Barrett punching away at his middle as he tried to raise his arms to ward off the blows. He could hear the sound of gunfire but didn't think it was going to matter. He thought this was maybe his last fight. He couldn't even get his arms up to block Barrett's blows that seemed to be raining down on him like a rock slide one after the other, no pause between them. He couldn't hear anything anymore except the air being expelled from his own lungs by the impact of the fists on his stomach and chest.

Then as suddenly as the rain of blows had begun, they were gone. 

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF HIM!" 

The weight of Barrett on his legs was gone and the blows stopped. He tried to draw in a breath but found it nearly impossible to breathe. He forced his eyes open as he fought with his body for air. He could see Nick and Barrett, Nick beating Barrett across the clearing, one blow after another, yelling at the man with the impact of each fist. 

"YOU… NEVER… TOUCH… HIM." 

He closed his eyes again and in spite of the pain had a small smile on his face. His brother had just saved him. His whole life he had waited for someone to save him from a beating. He did wish Nick had been a little quicker, but the saving was so fine. He fought to breathe and listened to Nick berate Barrett.

He must have passed out because the next thing he was aware of was Nick supporting his shoulders and trying to drown him with his canteen. He choked and coughed and moaned with the pain, ashamed of himself but unable to stop the sound. 

"Here, boy. Drink a little water," Nick insisted.

In self defense, he swallowed some of the water but he was having so much trouble breathing he couldn't really manage getting air in his lungs and water in his belly at the same time and tried to turn his head away from the canteen. Nick finally relented and took the water away. 

"I don't know how you see these dang ambushes so fast but you just saved our bacon again." Nick laid him back down on the ground and started to get to his feet. "I need to get a look at you here, boy. See what the damage is."

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't draw a breath into his body. He grabbed for Nick, for anything, unable to breathe, unable to call out. Then Nick was there again, lifting him up. Holding him up so he could draw painful breaths into his body. So he could breathe, so he could live. 

"It's okay, Heath. I got you, just breathe, boy." Nick's words and hands held him gently as he drew the air in past broken ribs into aching lungs. He coughed and had he been able, would have screamed at the pain. He felt Nick shift under him and he was able to draw another breath, each one a battle against his weakness and the pain. He thought he must be dying. He opened his eyes and looked across at the cottonwood trees and the bright spring sunshine, seemed such a fine day, he hated to die. Then he had to draw another breath and he felt his chest burning.

"I know it hurts, boy. But you got to keep breathing."

He turned his eyes from the blue sky and the cottonwood trees to look at Nick. He wasn't afraid to die. Seemed like almost everyone he knew was dead, so whatever waited for him, he would be in good company. But it was good not to die alone. It was good to feel Nick holding him against his chest, his arm around him, to hear Nick talking. He did enjoy listening to Nick talk.

"I need to get that bleeding stopped." He could feel Nick messing with his shirt. He was so tired. He thought maybe he would just close his eyes and take a little nap. He let his head fall against Nick's shoulder and closed his eyes. He thought maybe the eye closing was his dying. He guessed, maybe that was okay. Was a nice day to die with his brother's arms around him and the sun shinning.

"Don't you die, boy," Nick yammering at him. He couldn't get his eyes open but he closed his hand on Nick's arm where it rested around him. Let him know he was listening. He could feel Nick's messing about and then a great wave of pain picked him up and dropped him down into a dark pit.

************

Nick finished stuffing his neckerchief into the hole in his brother's shoulder and looked around desperately. What to do now? He couldn't put the boy down because Heath couldn't breathe lying down, but he couldn't sit here holding him. He had to be doing something. He just didn't know what. 

He looked over at Barrett. He shouldn't have hit the man so hard. Well he admitted to himself he should have stopped hitting the man when he stopped hitting back. But he had been so angry when he saw that man sitting on top of Heath, slamming punches down on his unmoving brother. He thought he might have killed that man with his punches if he hadn't been so anxious to get over to Heath. The other man, the bushwhacker, was dead. He'd shot him twice in the chest when the man stood up to get a better shot at Heath. 

What a mess. He shifted his hold on Heath until he could get to his knees. Then he carefully lifted the too-light body and carried it over to one of the many downed cottonwood logs. He sat his brother near the log with his back leaning against it to keep him upright. As soon as he started to let him go and leave, he felt the grip his brother still had on his sleeve. He looked at the work-worn hand clutching tightly to his shirt. Using his free hand, he carefully leaned his brother's head against the log and then slowly worked his fingers free of their grip. Then he held the hand for a moment and looked at his brother's face. 

He looked so young, his eyes closed, just lying there against that dead tree. He touched Heath's face gently, the face of this miracle of a brother come suddenly fully formed into his life. He smiled at Heath even though he knew he couldn't see the smile. 

"Don't worry, big brother's going to take care of this." He wished he felt as confident as he sounded but it was his job to take care of his little brother and he'd take care of him if it was the last thing he ever did.

He looked at the wound on Heath's shoulder. The bleeding had slowed. He looked at the back of his shirt and saw the blood there so the bullet had gone through his shoulder. He didn't think the bullet wound was the main problem. He thought it was probably the beating Barrett had given him. That those fists pounding into Heath's unresisting body had so damaged his already broken ribs that the boy could hardly breathe.

They were twenty miles from the ranch, on a walking horse four hours and some. He could hold his brother in the saddle but four hours sitting on a horse, hardly able to breathe, he feared it would kill Heath. This was the beginning of the ranch's high pastures. There were no other ranches any closer than theirs. He swore softly to himself. He couldn't leave Heath out here. He would have to try and get him on a horse and have him ride for, well admit it, the condition the boy was in, five hours.

He gently pushed Heath's hair away from his forehead and held his hand on his face for a moment. "I'm going to go get the horses, boy. I'll be right back. You wait here and we'll head home."

He found all of the horses down at the lake, drinking and beginning to browse in the rich green grass. The mares were already moving away from the saddle horses and he ignored them for the time being. He caught up the horse with the dead man on him and cut the man off and laid him on the ground. He removed the horse's saddle and bridle and let the horse go, keeping the bridle and leaving the saddle. 

He climbed up on Coco, caught the mares’ by their lead lines one at a time and removed their ropes to let them loose. He could see Shot-In-The-Arm from the last fight a hundred yards from the lake, struggling with his horse. He'd apparently tried to turn his horse from the lake to make a run for it and the bridle had come off. He smiled at his brother and his cut reins and unbuckled throatlatches. Clever boy, not his first trip to the circus he thought, and then wondered where Heath had learned so much about handling fugitives.

He rode over to the man he'd killed and looked down at him from the saddle, not bothering to dismount. Then he rode another hundred yards into the brush and found the man's horse. He removed the horse's saddle and bridle and let him go as well. On his way back, he stopped and put the bridle from the other horse on the wounded man's horse and smiling, cut one rein off and unbuckled the throatlatch. Then keeping the other rein, he pulled the horse along with him. He stopped, picked up the reins from Barrett's horse and Heath's little mare and led them over to where Barrett lay still unmoving on the ground.

He climbed down and used his foot to roll Barrett over on to his back. No good bushwhacker. Take his pay and then try and kill my brother. He took the canteen off Barrett's horse and poured most of the contents over Barrett's face. He kept pouring as the man sputtered and regained consciousness, quietly swearing at the man all the while.

Once Barrett had enough awareness to move his head out of the stream of water, he grabbed him by his arm and hauled him to his feet. "Get on the horse, Barrett. You dead or alive, it's all the same to me." He was so angry with this man he was almost shaking with it. Barrett, as unsteady as he was from the beating, read the danger in Nick with no difficulty and did everything he could to help Nick haul his sorry carcass up on the horse. He cut the rein and unbuckled the throatlatch. He guessed he'd never unbuckle another throatlatch without thinking about his brother. Leading Coco, Gal and the two outlaw's horses, he walked back to Heath as fast as he could without pulling the bridles off the horses.

He knelt down beside him, gently put his hand on the side of Heath's face and pulled his head up a bit. "Heath?"

No response. He handed the reins of Heath's horse to Barrett. "You lead this mare. You drop these reins, you try and get away, you do anything I don't like and I will kill you." He was amazed how calm he sounded. He'd thought his voice would be shaking with the fury he couldn't seem to move away from. Barrett took the reins, not looking at him. 

He went quickly through his saddlebags on Coco and found a clean bandanna. Wetting it from his canteen, he wiped the dirt and blood from Heath's face and then checked the wound again. It wasn't bleeding. He took the wet bandanna and used it to hold the neckerchief he'd put in the shoulder wound earlier in place.

He walked over to his two prisoners and made sure they each had their one rein in their hands and were ready to ride. "I’m going to pick up my brother and get him in this saddle and we're riding back to the ranch. So help me, either of you does anything to catch my attention, I will kill you. The way I'm feeling right now it would be a pleasure."

Wisely both men remained silent. He knelt down and picked up Heath like the boy he was, walked over to Coco and lifted the boy into the saddle. It was a little tricky getting his off leg over the saddle and he had to tip Heath quite a ways onto Coco's back to get it done. He could hear the boy struggling to breathe as he tipped him back. There was something wrong in the boy's breathing. He could stuff a bandage in a bullet hole. If he needed to he could dig out a bullet and cauterize the wound, but something like this, something wrong with a man's insides… He didn't know. He needed to get him home.

They rode due south away from the lake, heading to catch the road about ten miles south of where they'd left it earlier that day, skirting the hills when they could, going over them when they couldn't. Heath lay limply against his chest, struggling for each breath. He was surprised when the boy spoke to him. He'd thought he was unconscious. "My … horse?"

"Don't worry, boy. She's right here behind us." He felt Heath's head nod against his chest. "You want a drink?"

It was so long before Heath answered he thought he'd passed out again. "Yeah."

Nick pulled his horse up and reached in front of Heath fumbling with the canteen strap he couldn't see. "Hey, you… getting fresh?" Heath said as he fumbled between his legs for the strap.

Nick began to laugh, carefully keeping one arm around Heath so he didn't jar him. He finally managed to get the canteen loose. "You're not my type."

"Been on the… trail … a while."

"Going to take longer than three days on the trail before I'm making a pass at you." So saying, Nick gently rested his cheek on top of the boy's head for a moment, his brother's head.

"Okay then," Heath said and he thought that he felt a change in the rhythm of that difficult breathing that was perhaps a soft laugh.

He held the canteen up for Heath and watched as the boy struggled to swallow and breathe.

"Now I'm putting this strap back on the saddle here, try not to get too excited."

"Oh guess… I can resist… you a mite longer."

Shaking his head and smiling, he moved Coco on again. Maybe this would be all right. Maybe, in spite of everything, this would turn out just perfect.

An hour later they hit the main road to Stockton and twenty minutes after that Jarrod and four ranch hands rode up at a fast canter.

The horses were all pulled up and then they walked a few feet off the trail to get out of the dust. 

"What happened? You okay?" Jarrod was beside him, his hand on Heath's arm.

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks to Heath here. He's hurt, Jarrod. There's something wrong with his breathing." Nick was so glad to see his big brother. Not that he thought Jarrod was any better a doctor than he was, but just knowing that he was there, helped make the weight of his decisions lighter.

"What's going on with these two?" Jarrod asked, bending down in the saddle to look in Heath's face tipped down as it was, Heath's chin resting on Nick's supporting arm.

"Bushwhacked us up by Horse Lake," Nick said, shifting his seat in the saddle slightly. Riding on the cantle and his bedroll was killing him; he'd be lucky to still be able to walk by the time they got back to the ranch.

"Dice, you and Sandy take these two into the sheriff in Stockton. Tell him we'll be in to see him tomorrow," Jarrod instructed two of the hands. "Andy, take Heath's mare."

While the hands were sorting out the riders and horses, Jarrod turned back to Nick. "You want me to take him for a while? You must be getting pretty tired."

"I don't want to move him, Jarrod. He's shot, don’t want to start him bleeding."

"Pete, you ride into town get Dr. Merar. Tell him to meet us at the ranch. Tell him what you've heard here," Jarrod ordered.

Pete Kelly touched the brim of his hat and spurred his horse away. Nick, Jarrod and Andy Pettit, the remaining hand, turned their horses back to the road and continued south.

"What are you doing here?" Nick asked his brother.

"Russian Peter came to see me this morning. Said there was talk that some of the railroad gunmen from Sample's were asking around town about where you were." Jarrod pulled his horse down to a slower walk to keep pace with Coco. "You sure about holding him? I can take your horse. We don't need to move him."

"It’s okay. My butt's pretty numb by now."

"Did he say… he was… a numb butt?" Heath asked softly.

"You mind your manners, boy, when your elders are speaking," he admonished Heath, stroking the side of the boy's face. "You want some more water?"

"No… That Jarrod?"

"Yeah, Heath, I'm right here. Just caught up to you boys."

"Missed… the fun." The wheezing as Heath spoke clearly audible to both men. They exchanged troubled looks above the boy's head.

"We're talking, you be still now. Let your elders decide what to do," Nick admonished again gently. "Save your energy, boy. Just keep breathing. Don't suddenly start talking now. I been trying to get this boy to talk to me for best part of a week and now he starts, can't hardly shut him up," he said to Jarrod, keeping his tone light for the boy's sake but allowing Jarrod to see his worry.

"We'll be home in two hours." Jarrod leaned over and fiddled with his bedroll, pulling out his blanket and, riding beside Nick, he draped it over Heath.

"Not a minute too soon. So what are you doing out here riding to the rescue? A little late I might add," Nick growled, shifting his hold on Heath a little, thinking how good it felt to hold this boy this way, wondering when he started feeling the same way about this new brother that he felt about the rest of his family. How could that have happened so quickly?

"I wasn't too worried. I didn't think anyone knew where you were. But then when McCall told me that Barrett had been seen in town with some of Jordon's men and then Barrett disappeared... Well, I thought, perhaps we had better come and find you," Jarrod explained.

"But why would they come after me? Why not you?" Nick asked, not understanding why anyone would consider he was more of a danger to the railroad than his brother.

"I think they figure they can fight me in the courts. You were the first one to step up to help Sample. I guess they thought with me tied up fighting in Sacramento and you out of the picture, they would have a free run at the farmers." The two brothers exchanged looks as they remembered the last time a Barkley had been the first to stand with the local farmers and the railroad had arranged the assassination of their father.

"Heath thought someone was trailing us. I just didn't think…" Nick remembered that ravine through the hills and what would have happened had the four gunmen gotten the drop on them going into that ravine, if Heath hadn't refused to ride into there, hadn't felt the trap. "I think they've been trailing us since yesterday."

"Yeah, that sounds about right,” Jarrod agreed. “Barrett never came to work yesterday." 

"Yeah, Barrett. He nearly killed Heath." He remembered again looking across the clearing, seeing Barrett beating on his brother. Running toward the two of them, yelling at Barrett to stop and the man just hitting and hitting, Heath making no move as the blows fell on him. He rested the side of his face on the top of the boy's head again for a moment.

"You gettin'… fresh agin… Barkley?"

"See what I been putting up with this trip," Nick said to Jarrod, grimacing dramatically.

Jarrod laughed good-naturedly and reached across between the two horses to gently lay his hand on Heath's arm. "Don't worry, Heath. I'll keep an eye on him, protect your virtue." Nick felt Heath shaking against him and for a moment was afraid the boy was going into shock before he realized he was laughing. 

"Take it easy there, boy," Nick said, but he was too late. Heath's quiet chuckles had turned into coughs and in a moment he was doubled up over Nick's arm, coughing uncontrollably.

Nick pulled his horse up, leaned back in the saddle and tried to pull Heath back up into a sitting position. "Take it easy. Just breathe through it." Nick quickly dismounted and with Jarrod's help, pulled Heath out of the saddle, holding him against his chest as he carefully settled him to the ground, trying to keep him upright. Jarrod was down beside him with his canteen in a moment. 

"Heath, can you drink this?" Jarrod asked, holding the canteen in front him. 

Still coughing, he shook his hand 'no.' Nick held Heath gently keeping him sitting up while he coughed, Heath's good arm wrapped around his stomach. 

"Should you lay him down?" 

"No, he does better sitting up."

"Nick?" Jarrod said, seeing the blood on Heath's lips. Then not saying anything else, he took a clean handkerchief, gently wiped his brother's face and showed it to Nick before he folded it and returned it to his pocket. After what seemed forever, Heath managed to catch his breath and stopped coughing. Jarrod offered him the canteen again and Heath took a small swallow of the water.

"You okay to go on?" he asked.

Heath nodded his head tiredly. "Okay then, no more fooling around, boys. Let's just get Heath home and save the jokes for later." He could hear the anxiety behind Jarrod's attempt at levity and exchanged a worried look with him.

"Give me a hand here, Pappy." Nick stood up, lifting Heath gently in his arms, while Jarrod grabbed his legs and got him back up on Coco. Jarrod stood on the ground for a moment with his hand resting on Heath's leg, looking up at Nick. 

"We need to hurry, Nick."


	8. Chapter 8

"Howard?" She stood in the entryway holding the door uncertainly. "Not that I'm not delighted to see you. Please come in." She pulled the door wide with a sinking feeling. Howard would never come visiting at dinnertime without an invitation.

"Hello, Victoria. Pete Kelly rode into town and said I was needed here." 

"Please come in, Howard," she said redundantly as she tried to think. "At the house or for one of the hands?"

"One of the hands. He said Nick was bringing him back to the ranch. I just thought I would stop at the house and say hello. Pete thought they would be here by the time I arrived." Howard smiled at her reassuringly. "Nothing to worry about, Victoria."

"Did he say who it was?" she asked, but knowing where Nick had been headed, already feared to hear the answer.

"Yes, I'm afraid it’s the boy I was out here to see last week."

She closed her eyes for a moment, saying a silent prayer. Oh please Tom. Please Lord, surely you didn't let him find us to have him die now.

"Victoria?" Howard came up to her then and put his hand on her forearm. "Are you all right? It’s not one of the boys, they're fine."

She smiled at him. "Let me get some coffee. Or would you prefer something stronger?"

"No, coffee is good. I may need a steady hand. Pete said he'd been shot." Howard stood waiting for Victoria to lead the way into the sitting area. 

"I'm sorry, Howard. Please, sit down… I'll just get that coffee," but she remained standing in front of Howard. "Please, do you know how seriously injured he is?"

"I'm sorry, Victoria. Pete said to come to the ranch, that Heath Thomson had been shot and Nick and Jarrod were bringing him here. That was an hour ago." 

She could see Howard looking at her with concern. She felt like she should tell Howard about Heath, that he was Tom's son and that saying nothing was akin to her denying the boy. That perhaps by saying something, by acknowledging the place of the boy in the family, she could strike a deal with fate, with God to protect him. 

Then she remembered the boy's look of yearning out the window when she was in his room, his leaving the ranch, the family, in the night. Did this family that she valued so highly, that she offered him as a gift of such great value, could it be that Heath didn't want this? That the deal she sought to strike with the Lord by acknowledging Heath's parentage, would be a bargain he would renounce? Did she seek to force him to join the family by naming him as part of it?

She realized she had been standing in the foyer staring at Howard who was looking back at her, bemused.

"I'm sorry, Howard. Go, sit down. I'll be right back with that coffee." She smiled at him automatically and left the room for the kitchen, still unsure if by not saying something she was playing the coward or honoring the boy's wishes. Did she truly want him in the family, or did she really want him to say he didn't want any part of them? Did she secretly wish that he would ride in, say, 'Hello' and ride out again, taking the stigma of his birth, the remembrance of Tom's betrayal, with him? How much of a coward was she?

She had been so sure, standing in his room looking at him, that he was a part of her family that he belonged on the ranch and in her life. Now looking at Howard, knowing what saying he was Tom's son would mean to Tom's reputation and to the lives of her family, she suddenly felt unsure. 

She found Silas in the kitchen and asked him to bring coffee out for Howard. "And Silas, Nick and Jarrod will be here soon. Heath has been shot. We'll put him the same room."

"Yes, Miz Barkley. That poor boy, he doesn't seem to have much good luck."

"I'm not sure, Silas."

"I'll get some water heated, the bed ready and some bandages up there for Doctor Merar."

"Thank you, thank you, Silas." She stood looking vaguely about the kitchen, remembering talking to Jarrod at the table after his return from Strawberry. She had been so sure then, so sure when she had spoken to Audra and Nick. Where had her certainty gone? 

"I'll just go turn the bed down," she said and headed up the back stairs.

"I can get that, " Silas called after her, but she just waved her hand at him and continued up the stairs. "Get Howard his coffee. I'll be fine."

She stood in the doorway of the bedroom and looked into the room. She remembered looking at him that day lying on the bed, the sun shining on his face. She remembered that lightness of spirit she had felt. Then she remembered that smile, him telling her he wasn't used to women sitting on his bed. She smiled to herself. What was she thinking, she suddenly wondered? How could she lose someone who could lie in pain and make jokes about ladies on his bed? She had lost one man like that, she couldn't lose another.

She moved about the room, lighting the lamp, opening the window, making up the bed her thoughts with the young cowboy, Tom's son. By the time she came back down the stairs to rejoin Howard and begin the painful waiting she had lost a great deal of the fear that had nearly immobilized her earlier. Tom had sent them a gift. It was their responsibility to care for him. Caring for Tom's children was something she was very good at. She could care for this child too.

********

She heard Nick before she saw him, shouting orders at Jarrod to open the door. When he came in, he was carrying Heath in his arms, the boy's head resting against his shoulder. No talk of taking him to the bunkhouse this time, she noticed, in the front door and up the stairs with barely a look for her.

She followed him up the stairs, Jarrod and Howard at her side, Jarrod's hand under her elbow. She forgot what a strong man Nick was, that strength of body that went with the voice and the big personality. He never hesitated at the top of the stairs but turned into the guest room and gently lay Heath down on the bed.

She'd left an old clean blanket on top of the bed knowing there'd be blood and dirt before they'd need the clean bed. The boy lay still and drawn against the dark green of the old blanket, looking closer to death than life.

Howard took charge, asking her to leave. She started to argue and then met his eyes. She knew Heath wouldn't want her here for whatever reason while Howard got his clothes off and prepared him for the surgery that would follow. "I'll help Silas," she said, nodding her understanding.

"Nick, can you stay?" Merar asked as she left the room.

"Jarrod, get us some more pillows," Nick called to his brother's retreating back.

She stood in the hall waiting for Jarrod. 

"What happened?"

"They were ambushed up near Horse Lake. Apparently Heath saved another Barkley life."

"How badly is he hurt?"

"Not good, Mother. He's been coughing up blood. I just can't believe… after everything…" Jarrod stopped and returned her look.

"I know," she said and touched him on the arm. "I know and I can't either. We'll just have to get him well again." She left Jarrod there and went down the stairs to help Silas with the water and instruments. There was a reason for the boy's coming and it wasn't so he could die in that upstairs guest room. He was there so Tom Barkley's family could all be together, all of them together where she could watch over and care for them.


	9. Chapter 9

He kept Heath's shoulders and head elevated against his chest as Dr. Merar removed first Heath's boots and then his pants. Then the two of them carefully maneuvered the semi-conscious boy as they removed his shirt. He grabbed the two pillows from Jarrod, and set them on the bed, and carefully lowered the boy's upper body down on top of them.

"He can't seem to breathe lying out flat," he explained to Merar.

"What happened?" the doctor asked, pulling his stethoscope out of his bag and holding it in his hands while he listened to Nick.

"He was shot," Nick said, nodding toward the now slowly seeping wound on his upper shoulder. "It bled out some at the beginning but I got the bleeding stopped pretty quickly. Barrett beat the daylights out of him, though, and with those ribs…" He hesitated; he didn't like to say the last part in case not saying it would make it not be true. "He was coughing. He gets coughing and can't stop. Was coughing up blood. Not a lot," he temporized, sure a little was much better than a lot.

Merar nodded and, put the stethoscope to Heath's chest, listened. 

"How's it sound? Is he going to be okay?" he asked.

"Nick. Please. Let me listen." 

Jarrod put his hand on Nick's shoulder. Then hearing his mother's voice in the hall, Nick hastily drew a second blanket up to Heath's waist and gave Jarrod a tight smile.

"Thanks," came softly from the bed. Heath's hand closed convulsively around the blanket as he looked up at his brother with half closed eyes.

"Heath, I need you to cough for me. I know it hurts," Merar said, putting his hand on his uninjured shoulder. Heath looked at him through half open eyes. "Nick will hold you up, make it easier but I need to hear your lungs. I'm sorry, son."

Nick stepped over to the bed, carefully sat down at the head and as gently as possible, lifted Heath up from the pillow to hold him. "He has a hard time stopping once he starts," he said, hoping to forestall the coughing, hoping to not have to see that blood and that pain.

Merar looked at him silently for a moment then redirected his gaze to Heath. "Give me a cough, son."

The cough was endless, wrenching. He looked up to see his mother standing in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth as Heath seemed to cough out his life, pulling his knees up to ease his ribs, rolling against Nick to try and escape the pain.

Finally, seeming to just run out of strength, the coughs ended and Nick gently lay him back on the pillows, but not before looking to see what his hands had felt on Heath's back. As his eye caught the whiteness of the scars under his hand, he hesitated for a moment, then, looking into his brother's eyes, he lowered him to the bed and gently pushed Heath's hair back off his forehead and smiled at him. "Your okay now, boy." Heath looked away without comment and closed his eyes tiredly. 

**********

Dr. Merar sat up straight and removed the stethoscope from his ears. "Heath, can you understand me, son?" he asked softly, not sure if the young cowboy was conscious or not.

Heath nodded, opened his eyes tiredly and gave a small half smile. "Ran out on my bill… sorry," he said softly.

"Not tonight's problem. You've had a lot of trauma to your chest from a fall or something?" Merar asked.

"Barrett… fell on me."

"Yeah that might do it, especially coupled with the beating Nick saw him giving you." Merar paused, thinking. There had been very little blood that time when the boy coughed which was a good sign. He could hear the typical crunching sounds of the lung trauma but the boy seemed to be getting enough air. 

Merar poured some of the laudanum into a spoon and offered it to the young man, who took it and the glass of water afterward without comment. "We need to give that a couple of minutes to take effect. You've obviously suffered considerable trauma, you know, damage, to your chest. There isn't anything I can do about that. You need to lie still, breathe as normally as you’re able and let it heal. It's going to take perhaps two weeks, but if you can lie still and wait it out, you will be all right." He didn't add the part about not getting pneumonia. He thought perhaps the boy had been through enough without going into that just now. 

"Let me look at your shoulder now." He took his scissors, cut away Nick's quick dressing and examined the wound. "Can you move your arm for me, just a little? I want to see if the bone is broken."

Heath looked at him for a moment, then closed his eyes and lifted his arm away from his chest a few inches. Sweat immediately beaded up on his forehead. Merar held his hand gently on the shoulder to feel the movement of the joint.

"Okay, that's fine. That's enough." Merar found he was feeling more like a medieval torturer this evening than a doctor. "I don’t think the bone is broken." He washed the blood away from the wound as gently as he could. He could feel the young man shaking under his ministrations, but could offer him no comfort beyond the laudanum. He felt the bed move and saw Nick sit down on the other side of the boy and take Heath's hand in his. The younger man opened his eyes and looked up at Nick, but made no comment. Merar thought maybe he did see Heath's lips quirk up in one corner but he wasn't sure.

"This looks a lot worse than it is. If you can hold on here for a minute, I can get this cleaned out and closed up." Merar looked over at Nick. 

"Just put a little pressure on that other shoulder for me, Nick. Be careful, no pressure on his chest and put your other hand here, on his upper arm."

"Now Heath, this is going to hurt but not even for a minute, I promise."

Heath nodded, his eyes focused on Nick's face. Merar picked up his forceps with one hand and pushed down on the damaged tissue on either side of the wound with his other. While the boy squirmed at the sudden pain, he cleaned the wound as quickly as he could. Grabbing the cloth he had ready on the table, he immediately staunched the fresh blood and kept pressure on the wound, waiting to see if the bleeding would stop or if he would need to cauterize it. He could hear the boy panting and thought it couldn't possibly be good for his lungs.

Victoria met him in the parlor half an hour later. 

"How is he, Howard?"

He thought she seemed very distressed over the health of the young cowhand, but he had always thought that the Barkleys took very good care of their people. He also suspected there was more to this young boy than met the eye. While Victoria or Audra might show this much concern for an injured cowboy, he had been very surprised to see Nick Barkley up there holding the boy's hand like some long lost brother. 

"He's not great, Victoria. He's had a massive trauma to his chest. If you can keep him quiet and in bed for ten days to two weeks, and if he heals as he should, he'll be okay. The big danger is pneumonia." Merar looked at her searchingly. "Would you like me to send Mimi Robbins out from town to do the nursing?" he asked, unsure just what was going on here with this boy and this family.

"No, thank you, Howard. We'll take care of it." Victoria smiled at him. "He's Tom's son, Howard."

"My God. Tom Barkley's son?"

"Yes." Victoria smiled that enigmatic smile at him again and he glanced up at the portrait over the fireplace. My God.

****************

He slept, he woke, he coughed and he slept again. He had no sense of day or night, just pain. Sometimes the pain was terrible and he couldn't think, it burned the thoughts out of his head. Other times it was just pain and he would hold it close where he could try and make it smaller, where he could think around it. Always there was a soft murmur of voices, cool cloths on his face, gentle hands lifting him, helping him, soothing him.

He opened his eyes and found the pain small enough that he could pull it close and hold it to one side so he could think and see. He saw that blue ceiling and knew he was back in the fancy Barkley bedroom. He tried to remember past the pain to how he came to be where he had left weeks ago, lifetimes ago.

"Here, drink a little of this." He turned his eyes and saw Mrs. Barkley and a glass coming at him. She had the glass at his mouth before he could say anything and he dutifully swallowed some of that wonderful orange juice. He smiled at that and she returned his smile. 

"Silas said you really liked the juice," she said, looking pleased with something.

"Yes, ma'am." He was amazed that soft, hoarse voice was his. He tried to clear his throat and she put her hand on his shoulder.

"Your voice is rough, you've been doing a lot of coughing. Don't worry." Then she was wiping his face with a damp rag. He closed his eyes, mortified this fine lady was wiping off his face.

"I'm fine, ma'am." He would have reached up his hand and stopped her, but he could hardly move it. He tried to remember how he ended up trapped in this bed with this fine lady yet again.

"You were shot in an ambush and beat up. Your chest was injured. That's why you’re having trouble breathing." 

He remembered Barrett and Nick and the mares. He remembered Nick pulling Barrett off the top of him, beating Barrett, yelling at Barrett. Then he remembered the ride back to the ranch, Nick holding him in the saddle, taking care of him.

"I remember." He remembered his brother saving him, holding him, keeping him.

"That was three days ago. You're doing much better; you're going to be fine if you keep doing as you’re told. But you’re not fine yet." Now she had a big smile on her face and he gave her a small smile in return.

"No, ma'am. Guess not."

She gave him some water and a little bread and honey and after a bit he dozed again, her still sitting there on the edge of his bed. When he woke it was dark, the room lit in shadows by the lamp at the head of the bed.

"Here, boy, drink some of this." Nick lifted his head up and offered him a glass of water. He drank it, his throat dry and sore. 

"You need to cough and clear out your lungs now," Nick said, taking the glass away.

He looked at Nick's face and then quickly looked away at the sorrow he saw there. 

"I'm sorry, Heath. It’s the coughing that clears out your lungs. Prevents pneumonia." Nick messed with the blankets, freeing his hand and giving him a rag, guiding his hand to his mouth. "You can do this for yourself now. You just need a good cough and you’re all finished." 

He recognized that tone in Nick's voice, the same one his mama used when she was trying to dose him with the castor oil. "Just a little swallow, Heath, and you’re done," a mother's tone from a brother. He closed his eyes and coughed.

After an age of coughing, Nick helped him sit up again and replaced the pillows to hold him half sitting in the bed. He took the now awful rag and threw it into a bowl under the bed. Then, as gently as his mother, Nick wiped his face for him and gave him another drink of water. 

"Thanks, Nick."

"You okay, Little Brother?" Nick rested his hand on Heath’s head, brushing his hair back smiled at him. When he made no reply, Nick asked, "You want something to eat?"

He shook his head 'no', feeling weary from the coughing and the pain. 

"How about the laudanum, more of that?"

"Better not," he told him, meeting his eyes now, knowing that, like him, Nick had seen the result of too much laudanum in the war and would understand his care. 

"I know it doesn't feel it right now, but you’re doing much better. Doc's coming back out tomorrow take another look at you." Nick was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hand resting on Heath's forearm, the pressure slight, the warmth and contact surprisingly welcome.

He nodded, almost too tired to speak, and smiled slightly at Nick, at the help with the coughing, at the warm hand on his arm. "Thanks for Barrett."

"That, Little Brother, that was absolutely my pleasure." Nick laughed and then stopped suddenly. "Don't you start laughing now."

He smiled at Nick who again began laughing out loud. Nick eventually managed to stop laughing and took a few minutes to tell him that Barrett and the other ambusher, a man named Lewis, were sitting in the jail in Stockton. "So now, boy, you got outlaws in jail in Stockton and Jackson. You’re a one man Provost Corps, cleaning up California." Nick smiled at him. "That's nice work. Good job, kid."

He closed his eyes for a moment, smiling to himself. That had been even finer than he had imagined, Good job, kid. 

"What are you smiling about?" Nick asked him.

"Just feeling…." He looked at Nick, feeling surprised. "Happy."

"See." Nick smiled at him, a bit smugly he thought, and said, "Family makes you happy. Don't forget that, boy." 

He just smiled back at Nick and then closed his eyes and went to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Jarrod sat with his mother in the parlor, sipping his scotch and watching her think. He felt she had something she wanted to say and had been waiting most of the evening for her to get around to it. Nick had eaten a hurried dinner and gone back up to sit with Heath. Jarrod smiled softly to himself. Nick, who wouldn't admit Heath could possibly be his brother, would now hardly leave his side. He thought it must be nice to go through life with the strong, simple views Nick held. So few things were grey for his brother. Either Heath was not his brother or he was. If he was his brother, then Nick loved him unconditionally.

Jarrod wasn't sure how he felt about the young man upstairs. He admitted to himself he had spent a lot less time with him than Nick, knew him much less well. He certainly seemed like a nice enough boy, but he didn't think he knew him the way Nick felt he did. He thought that was his fault. The boy had been upstairs now for four days and while he had taken his turns sitting in the room, it had been late at night and he had always brought work with him. Sitting in the silence of the night beside the lamp, not even sure if the boy knew he was in the room.

He wondered on that for a few minutes. Was he avoiding talking to the boy? Why would he do that? He had admitted that the boy was his brother. Then he wondered, was that as far as he was willing to go? Was he willing to admit kinship with the boy, but not willing to allow him kinship? To allow himself to feel for the boy what he felt for the rest of his family? Was he denying Heath the love that Nick was offering so unconditionally? He thought that he was, and wondered, why?

He thought about the day he had met Nick and Heath on the trail back from Horse Lake, the boy looking like he was dying. He had been willing to join in then with the small family Nick was creating with the three of them. He had felt Nick's concern and even love for the boy and had shared it, but once they had returned to the ranch, he had begun distancing himself from Heath. He wondered why?

"When Howard first came here the other night and said Heath had been wounded I should have told him immediately that Heath was Tom's son." His mother surprised him when she finally spoke and it was a moment before he caught her words, so lost was he in his own ponderings about Heath.

He looked at her now speculatively and thought he would probably not have said any differently, indeed had not said any differently, to Howard.

"I felt that omission was a denial. I wondered at myself and yet still said nothing, until Howard was leaving, until I had thought about it. I would never hesitate to claim you or Nick as Tom's son," she continued.

"We don't know if he will stay." Jarrod offered her an apology for her hesitation.

"He's still Tom's son," she said, unwilling to accept his justification for her denial.

"That doesn't mean we need to wander the streets in sack cloth with ashes on our heads." Surprised at his own harshness, Jarrod got up and walked to the cold fireplace, not looking at his mother. He was beginning to understand some of his reluctance to make a place for Heath in his heart and his family.

"Yes," his mother said thoughtfully. "Nick did try to warn us it wouldn't be pleasant, welcoming Heath into the family. Is that it? Are we afraid of public scorn?"

He was silent, trying to feel his way through his own concerns. He thought now that he was very worried about something to do with this whole… was it a mess, a conundrum? He didn't like to think he was such a coward that a little public censure would have him denying a brother. Was that really it?

"I don't believe it's that. I certainly hope it isn't." He could turn and face her now that he had admitted one of his concerns to himself, admitted to sharing hers.

He considered his shame on his father's behalf and realized that was the edge of his fear, the easy part of what he'd been afraid to face. "I think that maybe it’s fear all right. I think I'm afraid of doing what Nick has done. I'm afraid of loving that boy, offering him everything I hold dear and having him find it inadequate payment for what my father denied him." He spoke slowly, trying to feel for the truth of what he was saying. When he had finished, he thought on his own words for a moment. Yes, he was afraid of offering Heath his love and watching the boy say he didn't need or want that love of family long denied him, and then seeing him ride away, again.

His mother sat silently thinking, slowly twisting her sherry glass in her hand, tracing the lip of the glass with one finger. "Audra acts as if he's always been her brother. Nick acts like a boy with a new puppy. Why is it so much harder for you and I to know how to act?" she asked him.

"Maybe because we're the two grown ups," he said, smiling at her sardonically, pleased to see her return his smile.

She then asked the other hard question. "Is Nick right? Do we just love him and hope that's enough to hold him?" 

"I know I've been holding myself apart from him. Afraid I think, to ask those very questions. I won't know if I don't ask." Jarrod was trying to be honest with himself and his mother. Straightening from his place bent over the cold hearth, he returned his glass to the drinks table. "I'm going to go spell Nick for a while. I don't think you can offer love in the abstract. I think I have to just love Heath as a brother and let the chips fall where they may. He either accepts my brotherhood or he goes. I don't think I can hold back the offering until I know if he will accept it." Again he felt the truth of his words as he spoke them and was pleased that his argument seemed valid, suiting his actions to his words, he headed up the stairs to Heath's room.

The room was still light with the late evening sun, still holding the heat of the day in spite of the window being open to catch any breeze. Nick had helped Heath over to one of the upholstered chairs and the two men sat in front of the window, trying to catch any cool air. Heath was better, no longer looking as if he might die at any moment, but far from well. His face was too deeply tanned from a life lived out of doors to ever be pale but there were dark hollows under his eyes and his cheeks were sunken with the obvious flush of a low fever. Heath looked up and smiled as Nick spoke to Jarrod, welcoming him into the room.

"Mind if I join you gentleman?" Jarrod asked as he pulled up the desk chair to sit between the two upholstered ones.

"Always welcome, big brother," Nick said smiling. Heath nodded to him and gave that small upward curl of his lip that Jarrod had come to recognize as a smile.

Nick and Jarrod sat talking quietly about a vineyard Jarrod wanted to plant at the southern end of the ranch. They already had a large vineyard, but Jarrod thought there would be profit in making wine for exporting to the east now that a transcontinental railroad had been completed. He thought the high markup on the wine would make the cost of the shipping worthwhile and wanted Nick to irrigate another 200 acres of pasture to grow grapes. They argued the pros and cons back and forth quietly for half an hour, occasionally trying to draw Heath into the conversation without success. Heath just smiled his small smile at any questions they asked him and refused to be drawn in when asked for an opinion. Jarrod finally allowed the desultory discussion to draw to a close. 

"Nick, do you think you could let brother Heath and I have a few minutes?" he asked his brother after a few moments of silence.

"Sure. I'll go down and check with Silas, see if he's getting Heath a tray for his dinner," Nick said after silently studying his brother. Rising to leave, he reached over to give Heath's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Don't let big brother bully you into voting to plant grapes while I'm gone."

Heath looked at him with one eyebrow quirked in surprise and gave his half smile but made no comment.

While he waited for Nick to close the door, Jarrod studied Heath's down turned face. He looked tired and drawn and very gaunt, as if the little food he ate was burned up by his coughing and never made it to his stomach to do him any good.

"You okay there, Heath, or do you want to lie down?"

"I'm good," Heath said, looking at Jarrod, obviously waiting to hear what he wanted to say that he couldn't or wouldn't say in front of Nick.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm going to draw up papers giving you an equal share in the Barkley estate. We, the whole family, would like you to stay here with us. Live with us, be part of our family. But we don't want to use the value of our holdings to force that decision upon you, if you don't want to stay," Jarrod spoke slowly and carefully.

Heath said nothing, just sat and stared out the window at the darkening sky. So far as Jarrod could tell, he was lost in his own thoughts, perhaps not even hearing him. He was surprised that someone could offer this obviously penniless boy a fortune and get no reaction from him. Jarrod waited him out, thinking there had to be some reaction in there somewhere.

"I don't want your money," Heath said coldly. "I didn't come here for money."

"I never suggested you did. You’re entitled to your share. We intend you should have it." Jarrod stopped. He had never meant this to sound like a business proposal. He realized now he had been wrong to lead into this with the money.

"Please forgive me. I'm a lawyer; sometimes I'm guilty of putting legal issues ahead of emotional ones. This was one of those times." Jarrod stopped again. Hoping if he could pause, he could begin the conversation again.

"I know Nick has been after you to say you will stay. I know Audra just assumes you are going to stay. I want you to stay as well. I want you to stay because you want to be part of this family, because you feel for us a connection that we are coming to feel for you." Jarrod paused; it was so much easier to talk about dividing the estate than uniting the family. He wondered why that would be?

"I know Nick has been putting quite a bit of pressure on you to say you'll be part of this family and this ranch. I want you to know that we all feel that way. But we won't force you to stay. That if you don't want us, it doesn't change the fact that you are Tom Barkley's son and as such are entitled to a share of what he amassed in his lifetime."

"I don't want your money," Heath said again, looking at him with cold blue eyes. Jarrod was reminded of the time he'd come home from school and had to tell his father that he had left Nick behind with a lame horse. That same look of disdain and disappointment was now in those eyes looking at him.

"It’s not my money. It’s your money too," Jarrod tried to explain. "I'm not offering you anything, I'm trying to explain that what's ours is yours."

"I don’t want your money," Heath repeated, in no way mollified by Jarrod's explanation.

Jarrod understood some of the frustration Nick must have been feeling the past week; it was like trying to argue with a rock.

"I don't care about the money," Jarrod said. "I'm trying to explain. We don't care about the money. Stay or go, it's all the same to us with the money." That hadn't been what he wanted to say. Now he was back to talking about the money again. Talking to this boy seemed to do no good. He said nothing and seemed to defeat every argument anyway. 

Jarrod sighed and looked out the window in silence for a moment. He tried to think why arguing with Heath was so fruitless. He realized suddenly it was because he didn't argue. He laughed slightly to himself and noticed Heath looking at him with that quizzical eyebrow again.

"I just realized something I should have understood a long time ago," Jarrod said. "What I came up here to say is that I'm really glad you are here. I'm glad you came and found us, told us about my father being your father." Jarrod stopped; it was hard for him to speak in the simple declarative sentences. He wanted to try and cover every possible angle of debate when he laid out his position, but with Heath there was no point. He wouldn't argue so laying out points of argument just defeated his position before he even made his point. "I really want you to stay. Be a part of our family. We will be less if you leave."

Like all of his other arguments, this one too seemed to fall into a well of silence, but he waited. He didn't take the side of the opposition and continue to argue. He waited for Heath. One minute ran into two and still the boy made no reply. Finally, when Jarrod decided maybe he had misread his brother yet again, Heath spoke.

"Thanks, Jarrod." He looked over at Heath who had that half smile on his face again. He smiled back at him. He decided that was sort of a start, maybe. 

"I'm going to go dress for dinner. You need anything before I leave?"

Silence again but Jarrod waited this time. He would wait as long as it took Heath to say something, at least a simple yes or no.

"You do know that folks don't invite their bastards to take up residence in the family home, right?" Heath asked in the longest sentence Jarrod thought he had ever heard him utter.

"It's not uncommon for brothers to live together, though. Is there a reason you don't want to live with us?" Then he could have kicked himself. There he was, making arguments again. Why did he have so much trouble just saying what he wanted? But he waited anyway and let Heath work his way around and see if he would answer.

"I've been a bastard all my life, Jarrod. I know how people act. It’s not good for your family."

Jarrod felt like singing Hallelujah; this was the closest he had yet come to actually having a discussion with Heath. He felt that he had at last discovered the crux of the boy's problem with staying. He stopped himself before he jumped into the fray with his rebuttal. He stopped to think as Heath did, to consider what Heath had said and why he had said it. He thought about Strawberry and what growing up with no father, a bastard in a small-minded mining town, would be like. He was glad he'd stopped to think. A cavalier it won't be a problem for us was not the right answer.

"You're right. I've always had the protection of a well respected and a loving family. I don't know what it is to be ostracized for something over which I had no control." He paused. He needed to get his response exactly right. "There will certainly be people, people we know and thought cared for us, who will take exception to your being here." He stopped and thought he could name a few of them without much effort. Then he leaned forward and put his hand on Heath's forearm. "But I don't know of anyone's scorn that I couldn't easily withstand to have my brother by my side." Then taking a page from Heath's book, he stood up. "I'm off to change. I'll see you later."


	11. Chapter 11

He sat looking out the window, feeling the gradually cooling breeze on his face, enjoying the end of yet another painfully boring day. Five days he'd been trapped in this room, watching the day come and go and unable to do anything for himself. At least he could now walk down the hall with the help of either Silas or Nick and use the necessary. 

He smiled slightly at that; it was in the house with a big tub that water just flowed into from pipes. He thought of all the marvels he'd seen since coming to Stockton; this maybe even trumped Audra. He'd known men had sisters. He'd never known men could have a necessary in their house with water coming into a bath tub any time you wanted it so. Not just any kind of water, but hot water. Well, he guessed maybe the bathtub and Audra were different kinds of marvels, wasn't really fair to compare them. Then he smiled to himself. He would tell Audra that later when she came to play checkers. She would see the humor in that, in him thinking she was as marvelous as a bathtub. 

He guessed he truly did love his sister. He'd imagined brothers all the time; he was growing up so by the time he met Nick and Jarrod, he pretty much knew what he wanted a big brother to be like. He'd never thought about a sister. Seemed every time Audra opened her mouth, she surprised him. She wasn't gnat brained, or at least she wasn't always gnat brained, although as fond of her as he'd become, he had to admit she had some very strange notions. 

Still, she was clever to talk to. Knew a lot of stuff and shared it without his asking or making him feel his lack of education. She especially seemed to think about clothes an awful lot, but he guessed probably all girls did, not knowing any besides Audra and his mama, Miss Rachel and Aunt Hannah, none of whom had ever had any money for thinking about clothes. So maybe when men were thinking about horses or cattle or vineyards, well maybe then women were thinking about clothes. Audra sure was.

He heard someone fooling at the door and knew they'd be in with his lunch in a minute. He sighed slightly. Not doing anything all day didn't seem to make much of an appetite. He guessed he'd wasted more food in the last three days than he'd eaten in the last three months.

Mrs. Barkley came in the room, a tray balanced in her hands and wearing a beautiful long dress a rich royal blue with a dark pattern all in the fabric. The dress had a cotton chemisette he noted and almost laughed, thought if he laid here much longer Audra would have him tatting lace.

"I see you’re looking more cheerful this afternoon," Mrs. Barkley said, returning his smile. She put the tray on the table, sat down beside him on the edge of the bed and handed him the glass of orange juice she seemed to bring every time she came to his room. He nodded his thanks and took the glass, drinking the liquid, slowly enjoying this glass as much as that first one Silas had given him what seemed an age ago.

Mrs. Barkley took the empty glass and put her hand on his forehead. He sat very still with his eyes downcast; he knew he was blushing and silently cursed his fair skin for showing his embarrassment to the world. 

"Still a little feverish but you’re doing much better. " 

He glanced up quickly and saw her smiling at him, her eyes almost twinkling with humor. This woman was a puzzle to him. He couldn't understand, how she could be so kind to him, knowing what he was?

"I'm glad you're feeling better because I need to speak to you for a few minutes. I've been waiting for you to start mending before I explain a few things to you." Her voice sounded much sterner now and he risked a second glance. Yeah, the humor was gone from her voice and now, her eyes were drawn down into a frown. 

This was what he had been expecting. He didn't know where all that smiling and kindness had come from or gone, but this face he knew. This was the face of the ladies in the store, Mrs. Nelson when he brought her rig out from the livery for her and Mrs. Dendel when he delivered her laundry and she asked, "Had he touched any of it?" This look he knew only too well. He wondered was he strong enough to ride?

She took his hand as she had that first day in this room and held it in both of hers. He kept his eyes downcast, studying her slender fingers as they twined themselves around his much larger ones.

"He was an imperfect man, my husband... in many ways that could hurt. But he never destroyed, only built and gave life. I’m so sorry that the life he gave you has been so hard but I know he would have been very proud to claim you as one of his sons." She stopped speaking, reached up with one hand and gently lifted his face so he was looking at her. 

"If you were my son, I would say to you, ’Be proud, because any son of my husband has a right to be proud. Live as he would live, fight as he would fight, and no one-- no one… can deny you his birthright. That's what I would say to you... if you were my son."

He tried to pull his head away from her hand, his eyes away from hers. He didn't think he could possibly have understood her correctly. What was she trying to tell him?

"Ma'am, all the time I was growing up…" he didn't know how to tell this story to this lady, "people called my mama…" He finally reached up his hand, took hold of her wrist and moved her hand from his face so he could look away. "They called me and my mama some awful names… I don't want that for you, for Audra. The names, the looks, the shame…" He couldn't bring such shame and sorrow on another family; he'd done his mama such harm, surely this lady would understand he couldn't do the same to her and his beautiful sister. He kept his head down so he couldn't see her face, afraid of what he might see there.

"Mrs. Caulfield told Jarrod that you were raised on love and joy. That your mother loved you more than life itself." She was stroking his hair now very gently. "You’re not a sin, Heath, you’re a gift. I think you’re a gift to this family from your mother and my husband. That you're a gift of love and joy if you will allow us to love you and share in that joy."

He glanced up at her, not sure what to say, what to do, even what to think. Of all the things this woman could have said to him, this he had never thought possible. "I'm a bastard," he said.

"You're my husband's son. Like all of his children you are my child too, my family too. Please don't allow your pride to deny us a chance to share your life. Don't let things that were said and done to you as a child deny you a chance of being part of this family." She was almost pleading with him now. When he looked over at her, she had tears in her eyes.

He turned his hand over in hers and gently took a hold of her hand, marveling at how small and soft it was, her grip so strong. He sat silently, holding her hand, looking off out the window at the bright daylight. Trying to understand a woman who could love her husband's bastard, love him. 

"It would be very easy for you to ride away from here. I'm asking you to stay, to build a life in this family, to share our love." She again used her free hand to turn his face so he was looking at her, forcing him to see her face. "Do I really seem like the kind of woman who cares what a few bigots think?"

He had to give a small smile at that. No, he guessed she didn't much care what anyone thought once she made up her mind. "No, ma'am."

"Alright then, I have some chicken soup here for your lunch." Then as if she hadn't started his world spinning in a whole new direction, she handed him a big cup full of chicken soup and waited while he drank it, talking about how Nick had turned his little mare back out in the remuda and how Audra had ridden out to check on her, how she was in fine fettle.

**********

Nick took his favorite stance at the fireplace with his forearm leaning against the mantle while he toed the andirons with his boot. Victoria sat playing with her glass of sherry, glad to have something to do with her hands, unable to keep them still. 

She thought about her conversation with Heath that afternoon. She hoped Jarrod was right, that all that was driving the boy away was his concern about damaging their reputation with his illegitimacy. She just didn't know, the boy was so closed off to them, fighting his battles alone, unwilling to share his … Share what, she wondered. Anything, she guessed. He told them nothing about himself and shared none of his thoughts, so different from her other children who shared everything, every thought, every event, every concern. 

Her other children. Where had that come from, when had it come? She guessed from the moment she realized he was Tom's son, from that day two weeks ago. She smiled; she had told him Tom's children were her children. She had thought that making it so would require some effort on her part. She hadn't realized it was already done. She rose and walked over to where Nick stood lost in contemplation of a cold fireplace. She pulled slightly on his arm, turning him toward the open French doors. "Walk with me," she asked, knowing it would be easier for him to talk if he was moving.

Nick smiled down at her and took her arm in his. "I thought for a while that he couldn't be my brother, I didn't want him to be my brother. Then I went after him to River Pines and I began to think that maybe he could be my brother. I couldn't understand it. I thought that my brother would be angry, being abandoned by Father in a mining town." Nick was silent, looking out at the night. She smiled at Nick, now pulled from her own thoughts by his musings.

"I didn't think that this quiet gentle man could possibly be my brother." Nick looked away, took a deep breath and then, smiling slightly, looked at her in the dim light from the dinning room. 

"Then I realized how strong he was. I began to hope very much that he was indeed my brother. After that hope … Well, belief was easy after that. Who wouldn't want this man for a brother?" Now Nick smiled fully at her. "You should have seen him, Mother. That horse thief outside Jackson had a gun aimed at me. Was going to shoot me and Heath pushed me out of the way and threw a log at him." Nick shook his head smiling widely. "A log. I asked him why he didn't duck. He said he had no hand gun." Nick sobered.

"I didn't know if I could get him to come back. I was afraid he would just ride away. I'm still afraid. He's made his whole life alone. How do we hold him?"

"I don’t think we can, Nick." Victoria squeezed her hand softly where it rested in the crook of his arm. "We can love him and treasure him and hope he understands what a family is in time to prevent his leaving."

"I don’t want him to go," Nick said simply, trying to understand what his mother was saying. Trying to understand how he could make this thing he wanted happen.

"I don't know what to say to him. He won't talk to me. How do I explain to him? I keep telling him we want him here and he just smiles and says nothing." Nick's voice was rising in volume, reflecting his frustration with his long one-sided conversations with Heath.

"Maybe you're not hearing him," Victoria said.

"HEARING HIM? HE DOESN'T SAY ANYTHING." Nick disentangled his arm and turned back into the house, needing to walk out his frustration she knew.

"Nick."

"WHAT?"

"Maybe you aren't listening."

"Mother, he doesn't say anything." 

Victoria smiled. "Listen harder, Nick."

***********

Shaking his head in frustration, he turned back into the house again. She didn't understand, all the words on the trail here from Jackson, then endless hours of talking in the bedroom and the silence from Heath. He didn't think she was listening. He smiled to himself; as least she spoke, even if she didn't listen. 

He placed his dirty glass on the tray and headed up the stairs. He would go and sit with his silent brother for a while. See if he could hear him saying something. Listen harder.

Nick opened the bedroom door and nodded to Silas, who smiled at his greeting and rose from the chair near Heath's bed.

"He's sleeping Mr. Nick. He was a little restless, but he's sleeping now, I think."

"I'll sit for a while, Silas. You get some sleep and thank you." Nick spoke softly, not wanting to disturb his brother.

"Good night," Silas said simply and passed through the door.

Nick stood and looked at the sleeping form. They had propped him up in the bed to make it easier for him to breathe with his broken ribs. The lamp was turned low and flickered softly in the light breeze coming in through the open window. 

Heath lay perfectly still. His breathing was so shallow and soft that his chest barely moved. Nick remembered Barrett hitting Heath, sitting on the boy and punching him over and over, Heath never making a sound. He realized his hands were fisted, squeezing so tightly that it hurt. He remembered Heath tending to the wounded ambusher with the bullet in his shoulder. Washing the wound and binding it up, offering the man a drink from his canteen, holding his head while he drank, this for a man who not five minutes before had been trying to kill him from ambush. He didn't understand this man, this brother. 

He wanted to understand, but he didn't know how he was supposed to if Heath wouldn't explain to him. How could he not feel angry with men who shot at him from ambush, beat him with their fists, abandoned their children in mining towns?

He sighed in frustration and went and sat in the chair that Silas had left by the side of the bed. He put his hand on Heath's head; he didn't feel particularly feverish. He seemed to be sleeping quietly just as Silas had said.

Nick pulled off his boots, put his feet up on the foot of the bed and leaned back in the chair. He thought again about the story of the five soiled doves and laughed softly to himself. He wanted to tell Jarrod that story. They had been up in Canby a year ago and had stayed with Peg Larson. Jarrod would enjoy the story.

He must have dozed off because he woke up to the sound of Heath talking in his sleep, calling out softly, "Danny? Danny? You there, Danny?"

"I'm right here, Heath," he told him, putting his hand on Heath's forehead. "It’s okay, little brother, I'm right here. You sleep now."

"Danny? You okay, Danny?"

"Heath wake up, boy." He'd seen enough of Heath's dreams now he knew that the boy wasn't going to want to spend too long dreaming if he could help it. He gave the boy's arm a gentle squeeze, not wanting to shake him and cause him any pain. "Wake up, boy."

"Danny?"

"It’s Nick."

"Nick?" Heath's eyes opened and looked directly at him. "Nick?"

"Yeah, your brother, Nick," he said and gave him a smile. "Remember me?" Nick grabbed the cloth from the basin by the head of the bed and squeezed some of the excess water out of it. Then he gently wiped the sweat from Heath's face and neck as he spoke to him. "We're back at the house. Doc Merar was here. He says you'll be fine. Just need to rest."

Not surprisingly, Heath said nothing just gave that small curl to one side of his mouth that Nick had come to recognize as a smile, or at least as much of a smile as he could usually get from this sad brother. He remembered the two of them laughing after the aborted escape attempt on the road to Jackson. There was more humor in this boy than that twitch of a lip, but he was damned he knew how to get it out short of almost dying.

"Go back to sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up again." He didn't need to tell him twice as Heath's eyes were already closing. Nick returned the cloth to the basin, sat back in the chair and put his feet back up on the bed. He needed to think about this boy and what he could say to him.

Nick went easily from thinking to sleeping. It had been a long day trying to catch up on ranch work let slide the past few days while he sat in here watching his brother sleep. Heath's thrashing and crying out in his sleep brought him awake and he flung himself forward toward his brother before he truly recalled where they were.

"Heath, Heath, wake up. It's just a dream. Wake up, boy." He kept his hands on Heath's shoulders, holding him pinned to the bed easily. Every time he touched this boy he seemed to be weaker and thinner, he thought sadly. He was wasting away to memory right in front of him. "Wake-up, boy."

He could see Heath's eyes were open now, staring directly into his, but the boy kept fighting him. "Let me go."

"You awake?"

"Let me go!" There was that suppressed fury in the boy's voice that he had heard on the other occasions he had tried to wake him from a nightmare on the trail. He released his hold on him gradually trying to make sure he was truly awake and wasn't going to fall off the bed before he fully released him. The boy kept fighting his hands until he had relinquished his hold and then he lay there a moment, panting, his whole body shaking as if in a fever. Then Nick could see him gathering himself to try and rise from the bed.

"Whoa, you stay right there, you're not going anywhere." He put his hand back on Heath's shoulder.

"Let me go," the boy said with a steady coldness that belied his shaking body and caused Nick to immediately drop his hand from the boy's shoulder.

"Where are you going? You’re sick, you need to stay in that bed."

"I'm going. Where is no concern of yours," the boy spoke with all of the fury Nick had expected to hear from him a week ago. A fury he didn't think was in the boy who had been so gentle and so easy going.

"Well, as a matter of fact, it is a concern of mine. In case you forgot, I'm your brother."

Of course, Heath said nothing. He just struggled to sit up and then, failing, fell back to the pillows, breathing hard. If he'd had either been beaten or shot, he might have made it, but with the two together, he wasn't going anywhere. Then Heath started coughing and Nick wrapped his arm around his shoulders, helped him to sit up straighter and moved in beside him to hold him upright with his arm behind him until the coughing finally ended. The boy just sat there with his head bowed, spent by his struggle.

"So you had a bad dream and you’re running out on us?" he asked softly to the top of the Heath's head, unable see his face.

"You got a family now, Heath. You got a brother right here who wants to help you fight your demons." He kept his arm around the boy's shoulders and felt his body gradually still.

"I don't know, Nick. I don't know about brothers. What to do," Heath said, not looking at Nick as he spoke. 

"So the dreams get bad and you run?" he asked softly, his arm still around Heath's shoulders.

"Yeah, mostly." Heath looked up at him quickly and then looked away again. "Usually works."

"Makes for a lot of traveling," Nick observed noncommittally.

"Yeah."

Nick waited him out, his arm around Heath's shoulders.

"They aren't always so bad," Heath finally gave him.

"It's the shooting makes them bad, huh?" Nick asked softly, not wanting to push too hard.

"I think so." Heath was silent but making no move to pull away from Nick's supporting arm. So Nick kept his hold on the boy and waited, thinking about the shooting that made bad nightmares.

"For a long while, you'll think this is funny, but for a long while it was the smell of horse liniment. I was cavalry and we were always treating horses for something or other so there was always the smell of liniment in the air. A long while after I came home, I just smelled that and …." Nick was silent now himself, lost in his own memories. "Just a whiff of it and I was back in Tennessee."

"But not any more, Nick. Me, every time some lousy bushwhacker tries to kill me and it's like the war never ended."

Nick looked down at the bowed blond head, feeling the warmth of the boy's body against his chest. "You were very young, you were there a long time, a quarter of your life. It's going to take a long time to make memories to replace those." Nick had no idea if he was right or not, but wanted to offer Heath something to take the place of the fears that haunted his nights.

"You need to stay, Heath. You have a family now. We'll help you fight your demons."

"You don't know them, Nick." Heath spoke with such sadness that Nick wondered for a moment if he could have misjudged this young man. Could he have done something in the past to justify his bad dreams, this sense that he somehow didn't deserve a family and the help they could give him?

"No, I don't." Nick paused and tried to listen to the boy in the silence. He tried to understand what it was to be a boy with no family, coming home to Strawberry from fighting a war, alone, a twelve-year-old boy leaving home to ride horses across the prairie for Mr. Russell, alone. He tried to understand the alone part that made a man so still that he could go hours and never say a word. He supposed a man alone would need to listen a lot more than he spoke, would need to be careful all the time. But how did he make Heath understand he wasn't alone any more? 

He sensed that what he was about to say was very important and wished again that he was better at talking to this boy, making him understand what he was trying to tell him. "But I know you, Heath. I know the kind of man you are. I know any demon chasing you is chasing me too, because you’re my brother. Together we can beat them. Together we can do anything."

"I don't know about brothers, real brothers," Heath said again, that sadness back in his voice and, Nick thought, a tone of yearning.

"Well, I do, little brother. I've been a brother my whole life. I'll teach you about brothers. Give me a chance. Give us all a chance and we'll teach you about brothers and families."

Heath was quiet so long Nick didn't know if he was going to answer or not. He kept his arm around Heath's shoulder, feeling the sharpness of his shoulder bones through the thin cotton shirt. "You're part of this family now, Heath. Let us show you how it works."

Heath's head came up slowly and turned so he looked Nick full in the eyes, as if measuring his words against his face, trying to see the truth of what he said in his eyes. 

Nick said, "My mother told me not too long ago, you don't choose your brothers but if I could choose my brother, you're who I would choose."

"Me too, Nick," Heath said and Nick thought he saw tears in his eyes, but wasn't sure because he thought there might be tears in his too. "I'd like to stay. Be your brother," and for the first time Nick saw the boy smile. Truly smile, a wide happy smile that lit up his face. "Big brother, huh?"

Nick smiled back at him. "And don't you forget it, little brother. I'm the big brother in this team."

"I like that," Heath said simply. "Can you help me, big brother. Can you help me lie down here. I'm about wore out all this talking."

Nick laughed and stood up to help his brother, grateful for the chance.


End file.
